Inspired by Anatomie d’une chute (2023).
She hired me because she needs me.
I came because I missed her.
And I’m fully aware that no matter how many favors I do, no matter how hard I work to keep her out of jail, she would never get back with me again. I am at peace with that.
I crossed a line fifteen years ago. They say it takes just three seconds for someone to fall in love. Years have passed, but I can still vividly remember the first night I saw her.
We were young. It was some birthday party of a mutual friend, and we ended up sitting next to each other. She was this ambitious, bright woman, with long auburn hair and big, brown eyes—the kind of eyes you could see your reflection in.
She told me law school was stupid, that she was going to be a bestselling author.
I smiled at that, back then. I was in love with her already, even before the first word left her mouth.
But now, here I am—forty years old, sitting across from the woman I’ll never get back, the one I can’t let go of.
Her kid is now twelve. I see her eyes on him, and it stings. A lovely kid, I comment, glancing at the pictures on the fridge. A husband, a kid, and a dog. What a beautiful family.
I trace her figure with my gaze. Time has not been kind to her appearance. The sharpness in her face has dulled. Her eyebags droop, the weight of years etched into her skin. Her breasts, too, hang lower than I remember. The long auburn hair she once flaunted is now replaced with a short, practical cut, with overgrown roots that betray the passage of time.
But still, I love her.
If she knew half the thoughts running through my mind, she’d fire me with no hesitation.
No, these thoughts, they’re not exactly impure.
I look at her lips as they move, talking to me, but I don’t hear a damn word.
Perhaps she knows. Perhaps that’s why she asked me to come here. “You’re really the only lawyer I know,” she said, with a small chuckle that barely masked the embarrassment in her voice.
“Is that a good reason to put your life in someone’s hands?” I ask, it’s rhetorical, but I want to hear her answer. Desperate for it.
If she’s cruel enough to ignore my question, then perhaps I’m shameless enough to be here, to help. She knows exactly how I feel, and she’s taking advantage of it. This hyperawareness of her presence, this attraction to her vulnerability, it pulls me in more than I want to admit.
“Stop making fun of me, Vincent.”
She says it with such fondness, but it cuts through me like a knife. There’s something unspoken in her gaze, a silent plea that could be asking, What could have been? Her breath hits the chill in the air, and for a second, I can see the warmth of her past in that fogged exhale.
Or maybe it’s all in my head. Maybe I’m just imagining it.
I inhale the cigarette, letting the smoke linger in my lungs and ease the hurt before I exhale slowly.
I try not to think about the fact that her husband is dead. She’s accused of his murder. There’s a part of me—one that I can’t quite suppress—that feels relieved. Not because I wanted him dead, no. I’m not some monster. But because I know this is my chance. I’ve spent too many years watching from the sidelines, waiting for some sign that we could reconnect, that maybe we could pick up where we left off.
But the truth is, we’ll never date again—not now. Not after all this. Not after the mess her life has become. The case, the accusations. The guilt that stains the air every time we’re in the same room, heavy with unspoken truths.
I glance at her—this woman I still love—and I think about what her life must be like now. The grief, the public scandal. But beyond that, I can’t help the twinge of something else. The remnants of a dream, of a future that was never meant to be.
She’s guilty, in a way. Guilty of a thousand small betrayals, maybe. But I’m not blind. The weight of her past, the violence she has endured—it was never as simple as it seemed.
I glance over at the photos again. The boy, the husband. The life she built. The family she had to destroy to make room for me. To be her defense lawyer.
I can’t do this for myself. I can’t be here for selfish reasons. If I had to choose between her freedom and the broken pieces of my heart, I would always choose her freedom.
But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop wishing it were me by her side, not him.
“You’re really asking me to take your case?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Her eyes meet mine, darkened by regret, or maybe something else—something closer to longing. Her lips tremble, almost imperceptibly, as she looks down.
“I don’t know who else to turn to,” she admits quietly, and it breaks something inside me. I swallow hard, trying to ignore the sudden ache in my chest.
I nod. “I’ll do it,” I say, more firmly than I feel. “But I won’t lie for you. I won’t protect you from everything.”
She doesn’t answer right away, and I don’t know if she’s relieved or if the tension between us has simply become unbearable.
She exhales sharply, like she’s been holding her breath this whole time.
“I know,” she whispers. “But I need you.”
I don’t respond, because what else can I say? I’m already here. For her. For the kid. For whatever it is that’s still left between us. It’ll never be what it could have been. But, right now, maybe that’s enough.
I inhaled the cigarette, the smoke swirling around me, clouding my thoughts. There was no easy answer to this, to my ex-turned-murder-trial-defendant client. But I couldn’t walk away. Not from her. Not now.
Not ever.
Author’s note: This is lowkey just a oneshot fanfiction of Vincent and Sandra… but I love writing from the male perspective. And I love their relationship. Thanks for reading!