Lareina
It’s urgent.
That’s all Lucie had to say to get me a same-day appointment to see a lawyer at Highsmith, Dickson and Associates. She was a little peeved that neither Highsmith nor Dickson was available. But I’m sure they aren’t the kind of people you can see on little to no notice, especially when you aren’t already a client.
Lucie has a meeting, so she leaves, and Ares’s driver takes me to the swanky high-rise that houses the offices of Highsmith, Dickson and Associates. Soft gray carpet muffles my footsteps. Six enormous flower pots along one wall sport orchids that don’t have a single scratch or flaw. There’s a splash of blue in the décor, probably so it doesn’t look too monochromatic.
I shake my head. The insistence on white, black and gray must be a lawyer thing.
An impeccably dressed receptionist in a smart navy suit smiles. “Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. I’m Lareina Hayworth. Lucie Peery—Lasker—referred me here.”
She taps on her tablet, then brightens. “Of course. Right this way.” She stands and leads me into the inner sanctum of law offices. Everyone’s in a suit, light gray, charcoal or black. A few crazy rebels are in navy.
I stand out like a sore thumb in my pink top and denim. But then… I’m not the one asking to be hired.
The receptionist stops in front of an office and knocks. “Your two thirty is here.” A beat, then she opens the door for me. “Here you go.”
“Thanks.” I walk inside the space with an exceptional view of the city. On the wall to the left hangs a colorful Lichtenstein—a replica, of course. The piece is rather startling amid all the black and white. Bookshelves groan under the weight of countless thick legal tomes. Those, of course, are a respectable black.
The lawyer at the wide cherry desk is in his early thirties, with neatly cropped brown hair and slender fingers. Gold-rimmed glasses sit on his face, and he lifts his eyes from the stack of documents on his desk. His mouth curves into a dazzling smile. “Lareina Hayworth! It’s you.”
I narrow my eyes.Do I know this guy?As I stare intently, he tilts his head.
“‘The art is the most fundamental expression of one’s soul.’”
I stagger back half a step as recognition hits me. “Ethan?”
His smile widens. “Yeah.”
“Oh my goodness. Our art professor used to say that at least once a lecture!”
“Right? And now I can’t recall his name.”
It takes me a moment. “Sanderson.”
He snaps his fingers. “Yes!”
“I didn’t realize you were a lawyer here. I can’t believe we’re finally meeting each other in person!”
He stands, and we hug each other.
“How long has it been since that class?” I ask. “Ten years?”
“Yeah, about that long. I’m surprised you remember me. I wasn’t entirely sure, because I never got a response to my emails.”
“You sent me emails?” I frown.
He shoots me a slightly sheepish expression. “Yeah, to the address in the student directory.”
I never got anything from him. The only thing that landed in my inbox during the class was correspondence from the professor.
Doris. Had to be her. Must’ve set up a block list or something to ensure nobody except instructors could get in touch, to keep me isolated and without support. It’s one thing to know other wealthy trust-fund babies through parties. Those relationships tend to be superficial. But in a class setting? That’s entirely different, with a possibility of deep conversations leading to genuine friendship.
“I’m sorry. I never got any of them.”
Something flickers in his gaze, and his smile returns to being bright and warm again. “Probably some weird tech fail. Happens.” He gestures for me to sit down.
