His grin falters, eyes flicking to me, then to the people watching. Tessa’s shoulders tense beside me as the table goes quiet around us. A few heads turn. I can feel the shift in attention—partners, associates, everyone watching to see who slips first.
He smirks. “At least I didn’t buy my seat with Daddy’s last name.”
He knows what he’s doing.
For a second, I can hear my heartbeat. Then Tessa’s fingers brush my sleeve, a small reminder to think before I end my career.
I smile. “No. You just rent yours by the hour.”
The color drains from his face. I sit back down, calm again. Waffles sighs under the table, unimpressed.
Tessa exhales through her nose. “That wasn’t necessary.”
“He crossed a line.”
“You didn’t have to set it on fire.” She leans in slightly. “If you want them to take you seriously, stop proving you can be baited.”
She’s right. Again. I don’t like that she’s right, but I like that she said it. It means she’s still on my side, at least for now.
“Smile,” I say quietly.
“Why?”
I glance toward the far end of the patio. “Because Hale and Brooks just arrived.”
Her posture shifts. Shoulders back, chin high, expression bright enough to disarm anyone. She does it effortlessly.
Three partners break off from the main group and start toward us—Hale with her measured stride, Brooks already assessing, and Harris trailing too close behind.
I roll my shoulders once, force a neutral breath, and set my hand on the table.
Time to perform.
Lauren Hale reaches us first. Her hair is silver, her eyes are sharp, and her movements are controlled. Every gesture is deliberate, every glance calculated. She built her reputation one measured word at a time and expects everyone around her to respect it.
Langford Brooks follows her, his expression unreadable. He doesn’t need to demand respect—he assumes it with his tightly coiled body language.
Michael Harris trails behind them, younger and eager to be noticed. He laughs before anyone says anything funny.
“Miss Whitmore,” Hale says, extending her hand. “We’ve heard a lot about you.”
Tessa stands and shakes her hand without hesitation. “All lies, I’m sure. Unless they were flattering—then they’re absolutely true.”
Hale laughs once, and Brooks lifts a brow. Harris stares too long, already taken by her confidence.
Tessa doesn’t falter. She doesn’t hide behind manners or deference. She’s composed, open, and completely at ease in a space where everyone else is performing.
The change in the room is subtle, but I feel it. Conversations nearby dip in volume, and more than one set of eyes shifts toward our table when the partners pull up a chair and sit.
Someone asks where I found her.
“Under a law textbook,” she says, voice light. “Or possibly crying in a supply closet. Either way, he’s stuck with me now.”
Their laughter is immediate and real. Hale leans forward, entertained. Brooks’s mouth curves into something close to approval. Harris grins wider, relieved.
Tessa glances at me, just enough to check if she’s gone too far. She hasn’t.
She fits in without forcing it, and every second of it pulls the attention I’m used to owning away from me and toward her.
