“She has that effect,” I say, keeping my voice neutral while cataloging every word for later analysis.
There’s a pause where their eyes shift toward Hale, the choreography of deference as practiced as any courtroom procedure.
“Interesting choice,” Brooks muses, studying his glass as if it holds profound secrets. “I’m disappointed she’s not in the interview pool. We could use someone with her... energy.”
“She didn’t come here to audition,” I say flatly. “She came as my guest.”
“Still,” Masden persists, “if she’s half as good with contracts as she is with working a room, we might be missing out on real talent.”
I shrug with indifference. “She’s not interested in Big Law.”
Camden leans forward, and I recognize the look—a predator who thinks he’s scented weakness. “How long have you two been together? You’ve been pretty quiet about her at school.”
I let silence be my answer.
Harris laughs, the sound of someone who’s never heard no in any meaningful way. “Come on, King. We’re not the ethics committee. Just making conversation between future colleagues.”
“She values her privacy,” I say. “And I respect that.”
The silver-haired partner I haven’t been introduced to, who’s been sitting in the corner with the patience of someone used to letting others exhaust themselves before he strikes, finally speaks.
“Pretty girl like that, smart too, and she doesn’t want the spotlight?” His tone makes pretty sound like an insult. “That’s unusual in our world.”
“She doesn’t owe anyone her ambition,” I say, letting an edge creep into my voice. “Or her presence.”
Camden chuckles, but it’s nervous now. “No need to get territorial, King. We’re just admiring your taste. She’s quite the catch.”
And then Brooks sets down his glass with a soft clink that somehow manages to silence the room. He leans back in his chair, studying me with the kind of focus that’s preceded every major merger he’s orchestrated.
“So tell us,” he says, each word measured. “What’s she really like? Behind closed doors, I mean. When she’s not performing for a crowd.”
The temperature drops ten degrees. Someone coughs. Harris’s smile evaporates. Even Camden looks uncomfortable.
The silver-haired partner leans forward slightly, and I realize this is the test. Not the question itself—the reaction. They want to know if I’ll play along with the locker room talk, if I’ll tradeTessa’s dignity for their approval, if I’m the kind of man who sees women as currency in conversations.
My grip on the glass tightens until I can feel the crystal’s edges pressing into my palm, and the silence stretches until it becomes its own kind of answer.
Laugh it off. Play the game.
It’s what my father would’ve done. He would have leaned back with practiced ease, tossed out some lewd story wrapped in expensive scotch and casual cruelty, offered a wink to keep them comfortable in their shared degradation. He was always comfortable in rooms, comfortable letting men strip women down with words and grins and the kind of immunity that comes with seven-figure trust funds.
My mother used to come home from those dinners quiet, her hair still perfect but her eyes hollow.
And here I am, standing in the same room with different wallpaper, listening to them pass Tessa’s name around.
I let it go for a while, allowing their words to pile up.
“Those heels should be classified as a weapon,” Camden mutters into his glass, already three drinks past professional. “Had half the junior associates forgetting their own names at cocktail hour.”
Harris smirks, the expression ugly on his already unfortunate face. “With legs like that? She could walk into court and the jury would forget what case they’re hearing.”
“She walks into any room,” Masden corrects, “and the entire dynamic shifts. I watched two board members actually stand when she entered last night, like they forgot their wives were sitting right behind them.”
Camden’s getting bolder now, mistaking my silence for permission. “That yellow dress was strategic. Fitted just enough to start conversations, modest enough to make everyone feel guilty for looking. She knew exactly what she was doing.”
“She’d make a hell of a client liaison,” Harris adds, already calculating her value in billable hours. “Put her in firm colors, have her work the investor lunches? Our retention rates would triple overnight.”
“She didn’t come here to network,” I say quietly, but they’re too deep in their fantasy to notice the warning in my voice.
