Masden waves dismissively. “Then she’s wasting obvious talent. That kind of presence is rare. Dangerous, even, in the right contexts.”
“Dangerously flexible,” Camden chuckles, the innuendo thick enough to choke on, “if she can keep up with both this schedule and you, King.”
The laughter that follows is the sound of men who’ve never faced consequences, who think the world exists for their entertainment and everyone in it is just set dressing for their success story.
I set down my glass with deliberate care.
“You want to know what she’s really like?” I say, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “Since you’re all so curious.”
They lean in, eager as dogs waiting for table scraps.
I smile—the kind that makes smart people reach for their lawyers.
“She’s brilliant enough to make every man in this room look remedial. She could dismantle your entire practice with a motion to dismiss and a footnote. She memorized the federal rules of civil procedure for fun. For fun, gentlemen.” I let that sink in. “She speaks three languages, four if you count the way she makes opposing counsel cry in depositions.”
Harris shifts uncomfortably. Camden’s smile is starting to fade.
“But you’re right about one thing,” I continue, standing now, buttoning my jacket with methodical precision. “She is dangerous. Dangerous enough to spot a tax shelter from acrossa courtroom. Dangerous enough to know that Masden’s been padding his billables for three years. That Harris’s win rate is inflated because he settles everything his daddy’s friends are involved in.
The room goes arctic.
“And Brooks,” I turn to face him directly, “she’s definitely flexible enough to know that your third wife’s private investigator has been calling my phone all week. Apparently, there are some fascinating questions about your asset allocation strategies she’d love to discuss.”
Brooks’s face doesn’t change, but his knuckles go white around his glass.
“So yes, gentlemen, let’s definitely keep discussing what we think she’d be good for. I’m sure she’d find it... educational.”
I take a long pull from my cigar, then lean forward and press the burning end directly into the arm of the leather chair beside me.
The hiss is satisfying. The scent of scorched leather and destroyed property fills the space between us.
“My apologies,” I murmur, straightening. “Cigar slipped. Must be all that flexibility training.”
I nod once to the room. “Gentlemen.”
And then I walk out.
Not another word. Just the sound of my shoes on imported tile, a ruined chair, and the unmistakable echo of several careers potentially burning at my back.
The hallway feels cooler, but my blood’s still running hot. I shouldn’t have said that much. I shouldn’t have shown that many cards or let them know I keep files on all of them the way they keep files on everyone else.
But fuck it.
If they want to make this personal, I’ve got years of collected ammunition.
I take the stairs two at a time, not trusting myself to wait for the elevator.
The door clicks open under my hand, and there she is sitting cross-legged on the bed in sleep shorts and a sweatshirt I know for a fact she stole from me sophomore year and never gave back. Her hair’s still damp from the shower, glasses sliding down her nose, Waffles curled beside her.
She looks up from whatever she’s reading, takes one look at my face, and slowly raises an eyebrow.
“Okay,” she says, closing her book with deliberate calm. “Who do I have to kill, and do you have an alibi preference?”
I say nothing, but something in my expression must give me away because she’s already shifting Waffles aside and moving toward me with that particular combination of concern and determination that’s always been her signature.
“Also,” she adds, tilting her head, “why do you smell like burnt leather?”
I don’t answer her. Instead, I cross the room in four long strides, hook an arm under her thighs and another around her back, and lift.
