I’m a top-tier lawyer who specializes in criminal cases.
Lu Chen is a poor boy I’ve supported for seven years. I got him into the best law school, taught him how to write legal briefs, and emailed him all my case review notes. I thought that once he graduated, we’d get married.
His first solo appearance in court after graduation.
He sat at the defense table, helping my stepsister sue me for abuse.
In court, he read the complaint aloud, word by word. I sat in the gallery and watched him use every technique I had taught him to attack me.
My stepsister’s evidence file contained seven handwritten letters I’d sent him in college.
Every one ended with, “Once you graduate, we’ll get married.”
He submitted them in full as evidence of my “emotional control.”
I lost that case. I lost the lawsuit, my license to practice, and everything I had been certain of for seven years.
He didn’t explain. I didn’t ask.
I moved to an island and opened a tiny legal consultation office.
Three months later, he came after me. He stood in the pouring rain all night, soaked to the skin, then pulled a bag of still-warm buns from inside his coat. “You always forgot to eat breakfast before a hearing.”
After that, he slipped a letter into the mailbox by my door every day.
They weren’t love letters. They were diary entries.
Letter 15: “I won my case today. I used to want to tell you first whenever I won. I still do.”
Letter 60: “I’m back at Yingke. I’m sitting at your old desk. The ginkgo leaves outside the window have turned yellow.”
Letter 125: A silver ring fell out of the envelope. The inside was engraved with “S&L.”
He said he had planned to give it to me on the day he graduated.
He said he thought
