Sylus Payne hates his life.

Up until exactly one minute thirty-one seconds ago he was content to serve the citizens of Miami-Dade County, arrest scum of the murdering variety, locking them away until justice ran its course. Then he'd head to his two bedroom, two bath, two story, sparsely decorated duplex to unwind and prepare to do it all again the next day.

Never one to complain, Sylus lives a comfortable life, makes enough money to cover his expenses, is handsome enough to snag the occasional recreational babe, and wise enough not to get attached to any of them.

It's a shame. The day started out so nice. No homicides were called in — yet — and aside from the sporadic ringing of phones and the unsteady rhythm of keyboard pecking, the bullpen was eerily quiet. Sylus was actually making a dent in the mountains of paperwork he'd been neglecting for weeks.

He looks up when he hears the confident click-clacking of heels against the sturdy stone floor and immediately wishes he had called in this morning. Alas, serenity is not meant to be because sashaying down the short hallway is his past, trampling his contentment with a pair of killer Manolos.

His chickens have come home to roost. One chicken actually. Cashmere Vaughn, the woman he wishes he'd never met. A woman he's tried eleven years, eight months, sixteen days, and a few gut-wrenching hours — in vain — to forget.

Sylus had heard rumors she was back in town, assumed their paths would cross eventually. He being a homicide detective, she being an attorney specializing in criminal law, the odds leaned heavily in favor of a run-in. He expected - hoped if he had to run into her at all - he'd chance upon the high profile lawyer on one of his court days, in the courthouse. It was for that reason he had avoided trips to the justice building in the past month unless absolutely necessary. Those times his testimony was required he was on high alert, dutifully watching for a Cashmere Vaughn sighting.

His plan? Preempt any face to face contact if he could help it.

He'd figured he was safe from a close encounter of the Cashmere kind in the precinct, his territory. The bad guys he encounters are mostly poor bastards from the wrong side of the tracks. Most of her clients are white collar, rich, the type that keep lawyers on retainers. The eighth floor is currently void of anyone matching that description leaving Sylus completely perplexed by her sudden appearance at his worksite.

He, like every other warm blooded mammal within glancing radius, visually follows her stride for sexy stride until she comes to rest at the homicide floor receiving desk.

From his vantage point at his desk, situated at the furthest corner of the bullpen, he can see the vision in navy engaged in a friendly conversation with Marilyn, the Public Service Aide, or P-S-A. Marilyn is the precinct's version of a uniformed secretary. The voluptuous dark-skinned stunner greets the lawyer the same as she greets everyone, with a warm smile and cold hands.

Sylus watches as Cashmere gives the P-S-A her full attention, her close lipped smile never waning. He knows she won't be here long. There are no suspects in holding or being questioned in any of the interview rooms. She's likely here to pick up a file or to follow up on some information from one of the detectives. He says a silent prayer that it is not him she needs to converse with, that she'll get what she needs as quickly as possible and be on her way without ever noticing him.

He gets a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach when Marilyn rises and escorts the counselor to the Captain's office. Captain Frantz Francois is the son of Haitian immigrants, born and bred on the tough streets of Miami, in an area infamously known as Little Haiti. A statuesque man with brown eyes and browner skin, he is no nonsense and always about business.

The Captain closes the door on their meeting but leaves the blinds open giving Sylus an unobstructed view of their exchange. Captain Francois does most of the talking, shows her some papers that had been resting on his desk, then hands her what looks to be two case files. Case files that are typically prepared for the District Attorney's Office and collected by the Assistant District Attorney. Sylus' stomach begins to churn and a blood vessel in the back of his neck starts to pulsate.

The meeting is short, over in less than 20 minutes. There is an exchange of handshakes before the counselor is directed back to Marilyn, who meets her at the Captain's door.

Sylus takes advantage of his distance and Cashmere's distraction to do a covert perusal of her appearance. She's never been just pretty or attractive. A more apt description has always required at least two-word adjectives; extremely lovely, most striking, devastatingly beautiful. Now though, she is fucking gorgeous.

The last time he saw her she was just out of high school, not yet molded, with lingering adolescent self-consciousness. Sylus knew her when the present day runway-ready silken locks were an untamed mass of waves and kink, before her toned frame had lost its school girl jiggle, before her natural beauty was accentuated with mascara and soft pink lip lacquer. The small, silver patch birthmark streaking across the right temple of her hairline only adds to her charm, giving her superhero persona. That cluster of gray hair has always been a conversation starter especially for guys who needed an excuse to interact with the sinful beauty.

As she moves around the room today she is graceful, like someone artfully connected with the world, and wholly secure with her place in it. A woman confident, smart, sophisticated, utterly beautiful. She knows it. Uses it with a cool brand of elegance that offers depth most can only envy.

Her attire is professionally stylish, high end, beyond the run of the mill attorney budget. The combination of tailored skirt suit and pale pink sateen button down, offers the right mix of modesty and sex appeal.

Sylus is shaken from his voyeuristic musings when Marilyn ushers Cashmere to the desk of Detective Samuel Dowd and introduces her to the young officer.

"Detective Dowd? This is our new A-D-A, Ms. Vaughn," Marilyn says, placing a friendly hand on Cashmere's shoulder as the detective rises from his desk. "Ms. Vaughn, this is our newest and youngest detective, Detective Samuel Dowd."

New A-D-A? No, no, no, Sylus thinks. This can't be happening. The precinct hasn't had a steady Assistant District Attorney since the last A-D-A went out on maternity leave four months ago. She decided after a month spent with her new infant she preferred motherhood to fraternizing with the underbelly of society. The homicide unit has been desperate for a permanent replacement for months. But Cashmere? It doesn't make sense.

Cashmere is private sector, corporate, high profile. Not civil servant, county-run, low profile.

While Sylus considers this turn of events Cashmere offers her hand and a smile to the young detective. "Is that right, detective? How long have you been working here?"

"Just two months, ma'am. I transferred from the Fourteenth Precinct when a detective position became available in this unit. I was a uniform cop before that, ma'am."

"Really," she says and looks genuinely interested in Dowd's work history.

"Yes ma'am. It's lovely to meet you, by the way," replies the painfully shy detective, his cheeks stained red.

"I would love to say the same but the fact that you keep calling me ma'am makes me feel like a grandmother and no woman wants to feel old before her time," she teases.

"I told you, Dowd," Marilyn says, straightening the young man's tie. Marilyn looks to be only a few years older than Detective Dowd but with his boyish disposition, Cashmere can't help but think of Marilyn as a maternal figure to the youthful Dowd. "The 'ma'am' crap needs to stop."

"I'm sorry ma...." he winces and stuffs his hands in his pockets, again appearing much younger than his twenty-eight years. "Sorry, I'm a transplant from the Midwest so it's kind of ingrained. I'll work on it; I promise."

Dowd is a corn-fed Midwesterner with pale skin, blue eyes, and a cloud of light blond hair. He is a proven asset to the Second Precinct, completely disarming suspects with his boy next door charm and fresh faced appearance. Always the good cop without even trying. One look has suspects spilling their guts.

"It's okay. I was kidding. It's nice to know I'm not the only rookie on board."

"Yeah," Dowd replies as another detective approaches his desk.

"And this here is Dowd's partner, Danny Castillo." Castillo is tall and lean with short, dark brown hair that appears to have been clawed through all morning. The detective is slightly shorter than Dowd but strikes Cashmere as the tougher of the two. Bad cop.

"Hello," Cashmere says.

The detective takes the A-D-A's hand in a vice-like grip — eye-watering, knee-buckling tight — shakes it with enough force that Cashmere's entire body vibrates.

"Hi, how are ya?" Castillo speaks in a tone better suited to the Energizer Bunny. "I have a few cases I need to finish up but I can't get to them until later this afternoon. Right now Dowd and I have to go bust some heads. We've been trying for weeks to deliver these warrants. Today we kick some asses. I'll have those files ready for you by tomorrow."

Castillo didn't breathe once during that speech but somehow Cashmere is the one left feeling out of breath.

"Sure, that's fine," she responds, attempting to rub circulation back into her hand. "I'm actually still in the orientation phase so I probably won't start reviewing cases until tomorrow anyways."

"Okay good and welcome," the detective says just as rushed as before, then turns to Dowd. "Come on man, let's brief Captain and then get the fuck out of here."

Dowd pockets his phone and follows the quick strides of his partner obediently.

"Bye ma'am, I mean Ms. Vaughn," he says over his shoulder. "See ya later Marilyn."

"Bye."

Cashmere turns smiling eyes to Marilyn who is shaking her head, giggling.

"Don't mind them. Someone must have thought it was a joke to put those two together but they actually complement each other." The women watch as the two detectives disappear behind the Captain's door. "And Dowd's a really sweet kid. I was trying to hook him up with my niece but he refused. I thought he had something against Black girls but I later found out he's head-over-heels for some cop he left back at the Fourteenth Precinct. I think that's the real reason he transferred here. The department shuns interdepartmental dating," Marilyn says as she leads the counselor deeper into the bullpen. "Come on let me introduce you to Detective Cruz."

The bullpen is a giant communal space, an open floor plan with desks dispersed intermittently. Unlike television shows depicting police stations as cluttered heaps of chaos, the Second Precinct is a newly renovated, clutter-free environment, spacious enough for each employee to have sufficient workspace. Individual offices, a conference room, and a giant break room slash lounge room are situated along the perimeter of the huge room. The open area is windowless but the combination of florescent and recessed lighting, and dark stone floors give the room an updated, cozy feel.

As she makes her way to Detective Cruz's desk, Marilyn points out the individual offices - the Captain's and the administrative assistant's - the file room, the three interview rooms, and the break room. Cashmere is fully engaged in Marilyn's tour and doesn't realize she's on a collision course of calamitous proportions with her past.

Officer Cruz's desk is a direct path to the yet unseen Sylus. Taking dramatic license, Sylus quickly assesses his options: 1) Hide under his desk. 2) Make a run for it. 3) Shoot his way out.

The desk isn't big enough to provide proper coverage, his ankle is still sore from running down a suspect two days ago, and since practically everyone on the floor is also carrying a firearm, shooting his way out may result in a few unfortunate casualties, himself included. Before he can consider other options Cashmere is bearing down on him.

Five....

Four....

Three....

Two....

One......

Eye contact.

Their eyes meet and her steps falter. She appears paralyzed to the spot. A look of shock crosses her features, mouth open. This all happens in a millisecond and if Sylus hadn't been watching it in slow motion he would have missed it. Just as quickly, in the next nanosecond, she grounds her teeth, sets her jaw, squares her shoulders, and... smiles. A devastating smile that causes Sylus' heart to arrest then accelerate in a painful way.

She turns up the charm when Marilyn introduces her to the soon to retire Detective Yosvani Cruz. Her smile widens to dazzling when Detective Cruz takes her hand, flips her hair when he comments on her beautiful gray streak, and throws her head back in laughter when the detective delivers some lame joke.

She knows Sylus is watching. Everything she does now is an exaggeration, extra, a caricature of motion for an audience of one.

To the layperson her movements may seem genuine enough but Sylus knows better. She's plastered on her Broadway, Miss America smile. The one reserved for performances. Poor Yosvani has no idea he is just a pawn in her twisted game of I Grew Up to be Smart and Sexy and Beautiful, Let me Rub It In My Ex's Face.

"Detective Cruz keeps trying to retire but we won't let him," Marilyn is saying.

"Aye calinda," the older man breathes. "I may die in this place if you're going to be visiting us every day." The silver haired Cuban is a bear of a man with a beach ball belly. That belly being a testament to his love of baking and an even bigger testament to his affinity for consuming the dough of his labor.

"You see these hips, Ms. Vaughn," Marilyn says pointing to her round bottom half, then directing an accusatory index towards Cruz. "Blame him. This man brings in homemade baked goods about once a week, despite my repeated threats. My trainer can't figure out why he's not seeing any results and I'm running out of lies to tell him." She narrows her eyes at the baking bandit but addresses the lawyer. "Be warned Ms. Vaughn. Steer clear of the break room on Monday mornings if you want to keep that cute figure of yours."

"Thanks for the heads up, Marilyn. I'm in-between trainers right now so I can't afford the extra calories," Cashmere responds but she's not really focused on the conversation. Her eyes keep cutting over to Sylus.

Look. Look away. Look. Look away.

The three of them talk a few minutes more and Cruz agrees to try a low calorie pastelito recipe for the upcoming week. Social niceties complete, her next and final destination is Sylus.

Fuck. He seriously reconsiders the shoot-out scenario but some sick, twisted, masochistic part of him wants to see her up close. Wants to see if her eyes are still that unique shade of green over brown over gray.

Sylus braces himself for his first interaction with Cashmere in twelve years, twelve painful years. Then, seemingly out of nowhere comes Detective Marco Grande. Sylus doesn't know whether to be grateful or to wring his fucking neck. The bastard doesn't even work on this floor. He is two stories down in vice. His hottie radar must've buzzed when Cashmere entered the building.

Detective Grande is of Mediterranean ancestry, walnut colored, and built like a semi. His expertly tapered 4'o clock shadow (even though it's only 11am) and neatly coiffed dreads - a liberty only allowed to vice cops - give him an edgy appearance. The baby blue button down he's sporting fits snug against the muscles of his chest and arms. Women eat it up, eat him up. Sylus' jaw clinches when Marco invades Cashmere's professional space and kisses her hand.

Marilyn clears her throat distracting Marco from his reverie, Sylus from his rivalry.

"Ms. Vaughn, this is Detective Grande. He works downstairs in vice," Marilyn informs. "Ms. Vaughn is our new A-D-A."

"It's nice to meet you detective," Cashmere smiles politely but has toned back her friendly aura. "I doubt I'll have much occasion to work with you. My services are pretty much limited to certain departments, homicide being one. Marilyn, here," she says smiling warmly at the PSA, "has been kind enough to show me around."

"Oh please, allow me. Marilyn must be crazy busy with the business of running this floor." He looks to Marilyn who has raised a suspicious brow in his direction. "Marilyn, please allow me to show the counselor around."

Marilyn watches him for a moment longer than necessary. "I've introduced her to everyone except Detective Payne. Besides, I thought you were up here looking for a missing suspect."

"Oh, I was," he replies then addresses the lawyer with a self-deprecating grin. "We misplaced a crack whore from downstairs. She has information on a missing pimp that may be vital to our investigation." He turns back to Marilyn. "Anyways, she seems to have slipped out of the building. I've checked every floor and no one has seen her. Don't worry, we'll pick her up soon enough. We know all of her hang outs." He turns yet again to the new A-D-A and extends an elbow. "Now shall we?"

The audacity. This is a work setting and Marco is acting like he's picking up a desperate bimbo in a bar. But Cashmere is not having it. She is suddenly very interested in her briefcase and case files. She readjusts the straps on her shoulders and fiddles with the files in her hands, effectively dismissing Marco's chivalrous advances.

That's my girl, Sylus thinks to himself followed quickly by a self chastisement. She's not his girl, will never again be his girl. He'd betrayed her in the worst way, spent the last ten plus years begging his heart for acquittal.

Marco leads the way to Sylus' desk, greeting his fellow detective with a man shake. Next he's making the unnecessary introduction.

"Ms. Vaughn, this is Detective Sylus Payne. He's a seven year veteran detective but don't let his experience fool you. Marilyn is always on him about putting his completed case files in the District Attorney's outbox."

Sylus openly stares, taking in every minutia of the girl-turned-woman, feeling the long-suppressed sense of electrification whenever she is around.

"Hello Detective Payne, it's very nice to meet you," she says without a hint of familiarity. If Sylus didn't know any better he would think she'd forgotten him.

So that's how we're playing this, he thinks silently. 'Pretend we don't know each other? As if we don't have history together? Familiarity breeds contempt, right? Fine. Good. That's probably for the best. Protect the innocent so no one gets hurt. Nobody needs to get dragged into what is surely a volatile situation anyway.'

He follows her lead, "It's very nice to meet you too, Ms. Vaughn." They have a grown up staring contest, neither daring to look away first. "So is this a temporary assignment until Sheila, our regular A-D-A, returns?" He knows better, but a man can hope.

She quirks a cunning smile his way. "Sheila has decided to resign her post so it appears I'm it. I hope that's not a problem? I realize Mrs. Watson worked out of this precinct for over six years. It's fitting that a permanent replacement may seem like a bit of a betrayal."

He's sure the last word was delivered with a drop of venom.

"Nonsense," Marco interjects. "We are more than happy to have you here. I certainly look forward to having you as a permanent fixture in this place. You definitely brighten a room Ms. Vaughn."

"Thank you, detective. This seems like a great police department." She daintily clears her throat. "Well, I think I've met everyone and know where just about everything is. Detective Grande, please do me one last favor and point me towards the ladies room."

"Absolutely, it's right over there." He points in the direction of two doors tucked in an enclave between the file room and one of the interview rooms.

"Thank you," she says. Then to the two men, "It was nice meeting you both." Before she can make a move toward the restroom, Sylus gets her attention.

"Ms. Vaughn, can I talk to you a second?" When he sees the hesitation he quickly adds, "I have a case to go over with you if you don't mind?"

They both know there's no case, but Grande doesn't know their history so a socially acceptable excuse is required to keep it that way.

"Sure," she acquiesces.

Grande takes this as his cue and says another good-bye before he heads back the way he came. He stops intermittently, peering under desks, looking behind dividing walls, hoping to happen upon wayward crack whores.

They wait until he is out of sight before they regard each other. It's been twelve years since they've been in the same room together and they're last exchange was riddled with pain and betrayal. Twelve years has done little to quell those emotions. They coat the space between them, making the air tense and uncomfortable.

"What are you doing here, Cash?"

"Ms. Vaughn," she corrects.

He gets it. 'Cash' is a too familiar moniker and there is no way he is getting away with calling her by anything but her professional, impersonal label. She won't allow it, not from him. Familiarity does breed contempt and they crossed the realm of contempt twelve years ago, currently standing smack dab in the middle of bloody revolution.

There is a beat, a brief stand-off, a silent dare and Sylus can hear the opening cadence of war. That's not what he wants. It's a fight he can't win because frankly, his sins are unforgivable. She has every right to still be angry. Sadly he knows, given the chance, he'd cull the same iniquity.

More seconds pass before he relents. "Ms. Vaughn," he says through gritted teeth, "what the hell are you doing here?"

A bitter smile spreads across her lovely face. "Oh, I'm sorry. At your advanced age I should've been cognizant of your obvious mental decay and failing auditory skills." She moves closer bringing with her the fresh smell of soap, a hint of citrus, and the pungent aroma of disdain. "As I'm sure you overheard Marilyn, sweet woman by the way, and the handsome Detective Grande not five minutes ago, I'm the new Assistant District Attorney for this precinct."

Sylus angles his chair away from his desk and with an action akin to a bear he rises from his seat. He doesn't want to fight with her. He really doesn't. He would rather, even if they can't be friends, they at least be polite. Possibly even pleasant to one another. But there's no way he's going to let her insult him, be downright nasty to him in his precinct, his house. Hell. No. It's time to nip this in the bud before things really get out of hand. He knows he messed up back then, knows he can never rectify the hurt he caused them both. But that was personal, this is business. If they are to work together she best learn the difference between the two.

She is average height, 5'6 without heels, but his stature gives him a significant advantage over her. Now that he is standing her gaze meets his chin. He can tell she wants to take a step back, put some distance between them, but her stubbornness won't let her budge. She tilts her head instead and braves his rising ire.

"Be careful, counselor." His voice takes on the ripple of a growl. "There's no audience around so you can cut the bullshit."

She watches as the muscles in his face flex just as her right eye begins to twitch.

"I'm not the bullshitter in this little exchange. I already told you, twice, I'm the new A-D-A. This is my permanent assignment until someone with a bigger paycheck than yours tells me otherwise." She's in his face and not backing down. "That means I'll be here several times a week, every week. If that's a problem for you... tough."

"What happened to Atlanta, Cash?"

"Ms. Vaughn," she instructs.

"What happened to the fancy law firm with the elitist colleagues and the high profile cases?" An emotion he can't name plays across her face. He sees her falter, decides to impel the knife a little deeper. "Let me guess; the Georgia big wigs were done parading you around for the cameras so they sent you back to Miami to slum with the lowly folks. You really think you can cut it here?"

She smirks sideways and says, "For someone I haven't seen in twelve years, you sure do know a lot about my résumé."

"It's real easy to keep up with your career when you sell out on t.v. in exchange for some corner office, a BMW, and your soul." He delivers the last word with a low rumble designed to hit her in her core, effectively slapping the smirk right off of her face.

"Are you seriously standing here calling me out on compromising my integrity? You?"

Got me there. Her look of derision gives him pause, makes his side armor feel like a cinder block and he shrinks back.

She grabs the briefcase she had rested on his desk and adjusts the strap of her handbag on her shoulder. "This conversation is over. Excuse me."

"Cash...." he calls out but she is already heading in the opposite direction, away from him.

"Ms. Vaughn," she corrects over her shoulder.