My gaze dips to where her hand rests on my desk. At some point, she repositioned herself to the edge of her chair so she could lean forward. “And where is it?”
“Being resized,” her answer comes easily. It’s what she told Javier when he asked, I can tell by the effortless way she just told me.
“What’s the name of your fake fiancé, Raina?”
She holds my stare, but I can see the hesitation swimming behind her blue eyes as she struggles to come up with an answer.
“If you’re going to lie, it has to come as easily as breathing.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she argues. “The shock of learning I’m married hasn’t even worn off yet.”
“Well, you need to think about it. These are the things the mediator is going to ask when we sit down to discuss terms, and the judge, if Javier escalates this into court. So answer me, Raina. Who is your fiancé?”
“I’ll figure it out, okay? Damn, Luciano, rein your lawyer persona in and relax. I’m not even technically your client yet. Aren’t I supposed to sign a contract, or put you on retainer, or something?”
Scrubbing my hand down my face, I realize she’s right. Not only am I losing my shit over this woman and her lies, but she’s not technically my client yet.
Huffing a breath, I lean over my desk and shove a finger onto the intercom button on my phone. “Lydia, are you in?”
Immediately, she responds, her voice slightly frazzled. “Yes, sir! Your door was closed. I apologize for not checking in when I arrived.”
“No need for apologies. Please print me a copy of the client agreement and bring it in here when you’re able to. Thank you.”
“Give me just a moment, sir.”
“We haven’t discussed your fee,” Raina says when the speaker quiets.
“I’m not going to charge you.” I shake my head, then mutter, “My sister would have my ass if I didn’t help you.”
“So, this is for her?” There’s a hint of sadness in her tone, and it does something visceral to me.
This isn’t good. I should squash the feeling while I still can.
“Yes,” I say, keeping my voice even. “For Vinnie.”
She’s looking at me like she can see straight through my bullshit.
The air around us pulsates with unspoken words, but thankfully Lydia breaks through it as she walks in, agreement in hand. “Hot off the printer!” she declares, placing it on my desk.
“Thank you.”
I’m acutely aware of the door closing behind her, secluding me and Raina from the rest of the world. Swallowing thickly, I push away the flurry of confliction overtaking me.
As always, I skim over the contract and pick up my pen, clicking it as I read the contract I already have ingrained in my memory. I prefer to write the details that differ per client myself and simply use the agreement as a template. I feel it builds trust and rapport as they physically watch me write in the terms rather than it being a prefilled standard printable.
“Here,” Raina says with confidence. Breaking my faux concentration, I watch as she slides a hundred-dollar bill across my desk. “Let me be a paying customer. It makes it more legit, anyway.”
I slide it back to her immediately. “I don’t want your money.”
“I know. Just take it, though. At least to activate the attorney-client privilege.”
“That’s not how it works,” I mutter, looking back down at the paperwork. “Attorney-client privilegeactivatedthe moment you emailed Lydia to set up a consultation. I respect the confidence from my clients and uphold that by keeping my mouth shut the moment any form of communication begins in my office, regardless of if I move forward with a client and a formal agreement is signed. Not to mention, you of all people should know I would never repeat your business to anyone.”
“Just take it,” she insists, sliding the bill in my direction again. So I do, not interested in playing games. Without looking at her, I yank open my top drawer and drop the money inside.
When we’ve closed the case and her divorce is final, I’ll give it back.
As I fill out the agreement, adding one-hundred dollars on the blank line for the retainer fee, I nonchalantly ask again, “Who’s your fiancé, Raina?”
