written by Shan R.K

The navy-blue button sat on Carl Curtis’s nightstand like a dare. Sleek, glossy, hand-stitched, with the faintest etching on the underside that only a magnifier could catch: FL.

Fredrick Lemour’e.

He knew the name. Everyone in law school knew the name. A fashion house so absolute it didn’t advertise its existence. People knew. The place where a suit cost more than most people’s mortgage. Their clients weren’t rich, they were wealthy, blue bloods, landed gentry, oligarchs, and Liston Hills’ founding families. Elites. Carl wasn’t a fan.

He sat back in the leather chair of his immaculate temporary apartment, twirling the button between his fingers as dawn painted gold across the sky. Barnes’s warning from last night echoed in the silent air – Three types of people. Billionaires. Those who work for them. Those who made a deal with them.

Fredrick Lemour’e clients fit neatly into category one. Maybe three, if the gossip pages had an ounce of truth apart from an AI-generated image of someone.

He pocketed the button. He’d have to reach out to his contacts in New York. If the button belonged to a Lemour’e piece, there would be records. Nothing at that company happened by accident. And if his midnight stalker turned out to be wrapped in Lemour’e threads, it meant someone wealthy wanted him rattled before he’d even warmed the seat of District Attorney.

By eight-thirty, Carl was primed, pressed, and dressed. Walking down the marble lobby of the courthouse, he didn’t miss the entourage of starers. A local cop had already dropped off his first day’s docket— A neat leather folder stamped with his name.

He reminded himself, The Liston Hills District Attorney’s Office was temporary, an outpost until the state finished building the bigger federal extension. But walking through those glass doors and seeing the brass letters etched into frosted glass—District Attorney’s Office—sent a jolt through him.

It was punishment, sure. But punishment still came with power and perks.

Inside, three attorneys were already waiting at the long mahogany table with two detectives seated behind them. Barnes wasn’t one of them—thank Christ—but he recognized the types immediately.

The short-haired woman in the navy skirt suit, already typing as if she’d be fired for a small demeanor, he’d say she’s the crazy one. Crazy lawyers made the best researchers.

The younger man in a gray checkered blazer, nervous energy bouncing off him like static as he spoke to the burly detective as though he were speaking about a holiday in Vegas. Carl was almost certain the youngling was the overpriced junior associate from Cromwell’s law firm, who had to get his hands dirty.

And finally, the old one, silver at the temples, eyes wrinkled but sharp, reading the morning paper like nothing in the world surprised him anymore. Which Carl thought probably didn’t.

“Carl Curtis,” Carl introduced himself, setting his folder on the table. “District Attorney. Guess we’re colleagues.”

The woman glanced up, her smile polite but collected. “Anna Lark. Assistant District Attorney. Specializing in corporate crime.”

The young man nearly toppled his chair in his rush to stand. “Lukas Ward. Junior associate at Cromwell.” He shook Carl’s hand, with a handshake that screamed, junior, rookie.’

The older man folded his newspaper with surgical precision, like an angry vulture, or overtly excited kid on Christmas. “Dale Harrington, your predecessor. Been here forty-six years. You’ll find the billionaires own the courtrooms the same way they own the golf clubs. Try not to choke on the champagne while you’re here.”

Carl smirked. “Sounds like an endorsement for our justice system.”

Dale didn’t smile. “I’m not quite familiar with the anthology.”

Before Carl could answer, the door opened and the court clerk peeked in. “Curtis? Judge Ford wants to see you. First case docket is on his desk.”

Carl excused himself, straightening his tie as he followed the clerk down polished hallways that gleamed with money the USA was definitely not using. Even the courthouse reeked of wealth. Crystal sconces, art that belonged in museums, not state property. He wondered how many billionaires’ “donations” had greased the marble.

Judge Ford’s chambers were as ostentatious as the man himself. Ford was broad-shouldered, white-haired, his robe draped over the back of a leather chair while he sipped coffee from china that wasn’t state issued.

“Curtis.” Ford didn’t look up. “Your first case.”

A folder slid across the desk. Carl picked it up. The State vs. Jack Peterson. Charges: Illegal smuggling of a restricted artifact. Item: One red marble artifact, circa Mesopotamian era, valuation pending.

Carl’s brows rose. “Artifacts?”

Ford’s eyes finally met his, sharp and measuring. “Jack is no ordinary smuggler. He’s tied to collectors. People with deep pockets. People who don’t like their toys seized at customs.”

Carl flipped through the evidence sheets. Photos of a marble sphere, blood-red with golden veins, sealed in a glass case. Customs officials had flagged it coming through JFK.

“And why exactly is this landing on my desk?” Carl asked.

“Because Liston Hills money is already tangled in it.” Ford leaned back, sipping his coffee. “Jack’s defense will argue cultural rights, ownership claims, donations to museums. The usual. But what matters is who shows up in that courtroom. Watch closely. The case will tell you more about this town than I ever could.”

Carl closed the folder. “Message received sir.”

By the time he reached his own office—spacious, hollow and gleaming with a view of the sculpted fountains in front of the courthouse—his phone buzzed with a New York number.

He answered. “Curtis.”

A smooth voice on the other end. “Mr. Curtis. You called about a button?”

Fredrick Lemour’e. The company rep wasted no time. Carl described the piece, gave the stitching detail.

“Yes,” the rep confirmed after a pause. “That button is exclusive to our Imperial Man-night line. Hand-tailored suits. Only twenty were made this season. Each client is registered.”

“Names,” Carl said flatly.

“I’m afraid confidentiality—”

“I’m not a tabloid reporter. I’m the District Attorney. And if one of your clients is wandering Liston Hills at midnight around a crime scene, I need more than confidentiality.”

Silence. Then, grudgingly: “I’ll email you the registry after you send me your credentials.”

The line went dead.

Carl threw his phone down on his desk filled with stacks of cases and exhaled. Twenty suits. Twenty names. Each a breadcrumb trail. He hadn’t even touched the courtroom yet and the town was already dripping secrets at his size thirteen feet.

By ten o’clock, his staff was assembled, files stacked, and his nameplate—Carl Curtis, District Attorney—gleamed on the door like it had been waiting for him. Temporary as it was supposed to be, something about his name on the door called to him.

He should’ve felt triumphant. Instead, he felt watched.

Because when he glanced out the wide courthouse window, down past the fountains and polished cars, there was movement again.

A man.

Tall. Hat low. Standing just long enough for Carl to see him.

And then gone, like smoke in sunlight.

Carl slipped his hand into his pocket, fingers curling around the navy-blue button. He had a courtroom to walk into, a smuggler to prosecute, and billionaires waiting in the wings.

But he knew one thing already.

In Liston Hills, nothing, not a button, not an artifact, not even a cat showed up by accident.

I will be posting the last two chapters of Drawstring on Sunday. Apologies for the long wait, I’ve been busy getting The Satan Sniper’s MC book cover ready, and doing the playlist.

The short stories published on Amazon and Apple will be much longer than the ones on the website. The website short stories are the quicker version. I will be giving a few free copies away soon, so you guys are welcome to enter my competition for December and also please share.