Perfect Sin - 7 | Lloyd Hansen
Summary: A ruthless lawyer loses her promotion to nepotism, causes a fatal “accident,” and draws the attention of Lloyd Hansen—the fixer who knows her secret and won’t let her forget it.
Character: Lloyd Hansen x female!lawyer
Main Masterlist || 2nd Masterlist
Chapter 1, Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , - , Chapter 7 , -
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“Soon, you’ll meet the man behind the curtain,” Lloyd said, leaning against the corner of your desk like he owned the room.
You didn’t even look up from the file you’d been pretending to review. “What do you mean?”
He opened his mouth— but a sharp knock cut him off.
You straightened instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. Lloyd stepped aside just as the door swung open and Mr. Grayson poked his head in.
“Ooh, Hansen. Good to see you,” Grayson said with that casual friendliness he reserved for people who scared him a little.
“What’s up?” Lloyd asked.
Grayson turned to you. “Y/N, tomorrow we’ll be welcoming a potential new client.”
You rubbed your temples. Another one. Great. “Who is it?”
“French businessman. Marc Laurent.”
French.
The word hit you harder than it should have. You felt your stomach twist, and you couldn’t help glancing at Lloyd.
But he looked unbothered. No flicker of recognition. No tension. Nothing. Like the name meant absolutely zero to him.
“Alright,” you said, though your voice sounded tighter than intended.
“Perfect.” Grayson slapped the door frame lightly. “And Hansen—stop stealing my best lawyer.” He chuckled and closed the door behind him.
As soon as it clicked shut, the room shifted.
Lloyd’s joking expression vanished. He stepped closer, lowering his voice, eyes fixed on you with that unnerving sharpness of his.
“Stay away from Court.”
Your breath caught—because he said it like an order, not advice.
You leaned back in your chair, trying to look calm even though your pulse had picked up. “Why?”
He didn’t blink. “Because he’s getting too close. And you… you’re stressed enough.”
You hated that he wasn’t wrong. The nightmares. The close calls. The constant pressure of pretending everything was normal while your life sat on a fault line.
And now a French client? A coincidence, sure. But your gut had never been this loud before.
You swallowed, throat dry. “I’ll handle it.”
****
The next day, the entire firm felt different.
A strange, heavy hush lingered in the halls, the kind people get when someone important walks in. You’d felt “powerful” clients before — old money, new money, CEOs dripping in ego — but this was something else entirely.
When you and Grayson stepped into the reception lobby, the temperature seemed to drop a degree.
Marc Laurent stood there with his hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, expression unreadable. Even standing still, he carried himself like someone who didn’t need to prove anything. The kind of man who walked into a room and made everyone reconsider their own posture.
Beside you, Grayson subtly straightened his tie for the third time. If he was trying to mask his nerves, he was failing.
“Mr. Laurent,” Grayson greeted him, extending a hand.
Marc smiled — slow, controlled. “Monsieur Grayson. Merci,” he said, shaking it. His accent was unmistakably French, but his English flowed perfectly. “Thank you for meeting on such short notice.”
“Of course. We’re honored.” Grayson cleared his throat. “Allow me to introduce our newest partner. Y/N.”
Marc’s eyes shifted to you. Cold? Curious? Impossible to read.
Then his expression softened just a little as he reached for your hand.
“Enchanté,” he said. “I have heard… very interesting things about you.”
You forced a professional smile, even though something crawled up your spine. His gaze wasn’t flirtatious. It was assessing. Like he was already calculating where you fit into whatever he wanted.
“Shall we?” Grayson gestured to the meeting room.
*****
The blinds were half-closed, the table spotless, everything arranged too neatly — Grayson’s attempt to impress.
Formalities passed first. Grayson talked about the firm’s history, its specialties, its clientele. You sat straight, occasionally nodding, pretending your pulse wasn’t hammering in your ears.
Marc listened the way predators listen — quiet, patient, focused.
When Grayson finished his practiced pitch, Marc leaned back in his chair.
“Thank you. Very thorough.” Then he turned to you, and the air tightened. “Someone recommended this firm to me. Someone I trust.”
Grayson lit up, always eager for praise. “We’re glad to hear that. May I ask who?”
Marc didn’t look at him.
He kept his eyes on you.
“And,” Marc continued, “I chose this firm not only because of the reputation… but because of her.”
Your stomach knotted.
“Me?” you asked carefully.
Marc’s lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “Oui. Your work. Your… precision. It is rare.” His head tilted slightly. “I appreciate rare things.”
You couldn’t decide if you were flattered or being sized up like a valuable antique.
Grayson clapped his hands together once, too loudly. “Well, we’re honored, truly—”
Marc lifted a hand, silencing him without a word.
“I would like to continue our discussion tonight,” he said. “Dinner. My hotel. I insist.”
His insistence wasn’t a suggestion. It wasn’t even an invitation.
It was an order dressed as courtesy.
Grayson nodded eagerly. “Of course. We’d be delighted.”
Marc rose from his seat with fluid, controlled movement. “Très bien. I look forward to it.”
As he disappeared down the hallway, the pressure he carried seemed to stay behind, pressing down on your lungs.
Grayson exhaled shakily.
You stayed silent.
Because something in your gut told you this wasn’t a normal client.
*****
Night fell, and the restaurant inside Marc Laurent’s hotel looked nothing like a simple dining space. It was quiet, expensive, dimly lit — the kind of place where people signed contracts worth millions or destroyed empires over dessert.
You arrived with Grayson, who kept smoothing his suit as if nervous energy were clinging to him. Marc was already seated, his secretary beside him — a woman who looked like she’d stepped straight out of a fashion spread, expression professional to the point of blankness.
“Please,” Marc gestured, “sit.”
You took the seat across from him. Grayson slid in beside you, too eager, too loud.
The meal started slow. Plates arrived. Wine was poured. Grayson talked — of course he talked — rambling about the firm’s global reach, its influence, its strategic handling of high-profile cases.
Marc listened politely. You kept quiet, trying to control your breathing, because every time his gaze flicked toward you, it felt like he was peeling away layers.
At one point his secretary leaned in to whisper something in French. He nodded once, barely acknowledging it.
Then Grayson’s phone buzzed.
He glanced at the screen and groaned. “Ah—excuse me. I have to take this.”
“Of course,” Marc said, not even pretending to care.
Grayson stepped away from the table.
And then it was just you and Marc.
The silence felt heavier without Grayson’s noise to fill it.
Marc rested his elbows casually on the table. “You are quiet,” he noted. “Most partners I meet cannot stop speaking about their achievements.”
You kept your shoulders straight. “I prefer to let my work speak for itself.”
“That is precisely why I find you interesting.”
You didn’t respond.
He continued, voice smooth, deliberate. “Becoming partner at your age… impressive.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “And your… cleaning. Très efficace.”
Your heart skipped, even though your face stayed still.
Cleaning.
He didn’t mean legal cleaning. He meant the bodies.
Your fingers tightened around your napkin.
Marc saw it — of course he did — and smiled faintly.
“There have been several accidents,” he said lightly, as if discussing weather. “Men who… wasted their power. Men who believed money made them untouchable. Filthy. Ungrateful.”
Your breath stilled. He was too casual. Too informed.
He knew.
He absolutely knew.
Something clicked sharply in your mind.
Monsieur.
Laurent. The French connection. The power behind Lloyd.
Your chest tightened.
Marc Laurent wasn’t a new client.
He was the man behind the curtain.
He watched your realization settle. The corner of his mouth lifted just enough to confirm it.
Before you could speak, Grayson returned, clapping his hands loudly.
“Sorry! Did I miss the fun?”
Marc leaned back, unfazed. “I was persuading her to join me instead.”
Grayson burst into laughter. “Good luck stealing my star partner.”
You forced a laugh, but your throat felt tight.
A small fish.
That’s what you felt like — tiny, fragile, sitting at a table with a shark who already knew exactly how deep the water was… and how long you could swim before drowning.
*****
The precinct was half-empty, late enough that only the tired and the obsessive were still working. Detective Court Gentry hunched over a monitor, scrolling through an article about a Paris.
A firm pat landed on his shoulder.
He didn’t need to turn; only one person smacked that hard.
His captain — a gruff old man with a coffee mug permanently glued to his hand — stared at the screen.
“Paris, huh? You planning to drag that lawyer with you?”
Court exhaled sharply. “I don’t even have the budget to get myself there.”
“You’ve spent plenty already just visiting that law firm,” the captain muttered.
“I’m looking for a link between our victims,” Court replied, jaw set. “They all trace back to that place.”
“Speaking of that…” His captain pointed toward the hallway. “Someone’s here for you. Says he’s CIA.”
“What?” Court turned sharply.
An older man stood there — grey hair neatly combed, expensive suit, posture straight enough to belong in a government portrait. His eyes, however, were too sharp to be friendly.
Court approached slowly. “Detective Courtney Gentry.”
“That’s me,” Court corrected himself quickly.
“Donald Fitzroy,” the man said. “CIA.”
Court crossed his arms. “What does the CIA want with me?”
“We should talk somewhere else,” Fitzroy replied. “Not here.”
They walked two blocks to a quiet park, nearly empty except for joggers and a homeless man feeding pigeons. Fitzroy sat on a bench like he owned the place. Court sat beside him, wary.
Fitzroy didn’t waste time. He pulled a thin folder from his coat and handed it over.
“I’ve noticed,” the old man said, “that you and I have the same interest.”
Court raised an eyebrow. “Did you stalk my Facebook?”
Fitzroy snorted under his breath. “Kid, if I needed Facebook, I’d retire.”
Court flipped the file open — and froze.
Photographs. Crime scene reports. Financial spreadsheets. Intelligence notes from multiple agencies.
And one word circled in red:
MONSIEUR.
Court’s stomach dropped.
“Only a handful of people even try to look into him,” Fitzroy said. “Most are Interpol. A few didn’t survive long.”
Court turned the pages faster now.
Marc Laurent. Connections to illegal shipment routes across Europe. Whistleblowers disappearing. Bribery pipelines. Hidden accounts tied to five countries.
Then the next page—
A photo of Lloyd Hansen, standing behind Marc Laurent like a silent shadow.
Court’s pulse kicked up.
“And the best part?” Fitzroy slid over another picture.
Court felt his throat tighten.
It was you — seated at a restaurant table, smiling politely, Grayson beside you… and Marc Laurent across from you.
Fresh photo. Taken last night.
Court clenched the folder. “You want to use her.”
“I want to keep her alive,” Fitzroy corrected flatly. “Laurent doesn’t collect money.”
He tapped the folder with one finger.
“He collects people.”
The line hit Court hard enough to knock the air out of him.
He stared at the photo of you trapped between two powerful men — one who painted himself as your ally, one who might already be closing a cage around you.
Court felt something knot inside his chest.
Fear.
For you.
*****
The knock at your door pulls you from your thoughts. You open it to see Court standing there, his expression unreadable, but his presence immediately makes your chest tighten.
“I found out who Monsieur is,” he says, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “His name is Marc Laurent.”
You don’t flinch, but inside, your pulse spikes. He notices. “You knew?”
“He’s the new client,” you answer evenly, forcing your voice to stay calm, though your mind races.
Court takes a step closer, his gaze locking on yours. “Be careful. You’re in the wolf’s den. I’m telling you this because I care. You’re different from them.”
The words hit harder than you expect. You finally understand why Lloyd has always been there, cleaning up your messes. It wasn’t loyalty—it was strategy. Everything he did, every favor, every cover-up, was for his boss. For the first time, a cold knot of betrayal tightens in your chest. You’ve been used.
“I’m just a lawyer,” you whisper, almost to yourself, trying to steady your racing thoughts.
Court leans slightly closer, his voice low and unrelenting. “Who also happens to be a killer.”
Your breath catches. Heat rises to your cheeks, and for a moment, the room feels impossibly small.
“I know,” he adds quietly, almost like a statement rather than a question.
Now you regret it. You should’ve taken Lloyd’s offer to get rid of Court. Or will the universe help you, like it has before?
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