“Right. The dog made you come check on me.” But there’s no bite to it. She sounds… tired. Defeated, even. Nothing like the woman who marched up my driveway this afternoon in eight-hundred-dollar shoes with unshakeable confidence.
I should leave. This isn’t my problem. She’s not my problem.
Instead, I notice the papers scattered beside her—vendor contracts, seating charts, all covered in notes in three different colors of ink.
“That’s a lot of detail work for someone with a full team,” I say.
She freezes.
Just for a second. But I catch it—the telltale stillness of someone whose lie has been spotted.
“My team’s… handling other things,” she says carefully.
It’s a lie. I know lies; I catalog them for a living. The slight hesitation, the way her fingers tighten on the papers, the forced casual tone—all of it screams deception.
“Right.” I glance at the papers again and spot it—a bank statement sticking out from under a contract. Multiple overdraft fees. Final notice stamps. A financial disaster that would send someone running to a faraway estate to pull off a society wedding on their own come hell or high water.
Damn.
She follows my gaze and quickly shoves the papers into a folder, but it’s too late. I’ve already seen the truth she’s trying so hard to hide.
“I should—” She stands too fast and stumbles slightly.
I catch her elbow, steadying her. The contact sends heat crawling up my forearm, and I’m suddenly aware of how soft her skin is, how she smells like something floral and expensive, and how easy it would be to pull her closer instead of letting go.
Once she’s steady, I release my hold and shove my hands in my pockets where they can’t betray me.
She looks up at me then, those large eyes wide and vulnerable in the moonlight, and I know I’m in trouble. Because behind all that beauty is something worse—someone real. Someone struggling. Someone who’s trying so damn hard to keep it together that she’s sitting alone in the dark, shaking.
This week just got complicated in a way I didn’t budget for.
The conference room is glass-walled and quiet, save for the rhythmic tap of my pen against the edge of my legal pad.
Across the table, two junior associates shift uncomfortably in their seats. One of them clears his throat; the other blinks too much. I don’t bother learning their names until they give me a reason to.
“I’m going to say this once,” I begin, setting the pen down. “This client is our white whale. He’s angry, powerful, and rich enough to weaponize that anger in any jurisdiction he chooses. If we don’t control the narrative—immediately—he will. And we will be the ones holding a bag full of unpaid invoices and NDAs.”
The blinking one nods, scribbling furiously. The other one suggests reconvening after lunch.
It’s already 2:10.
I haven’t eaten. Again.
The tension behind my eyes has blossomed into a full-scale headache, pulsing behind my left temple like a second heartbeat. I should care. I don’t. I’ve gone twelve hours on less.
We wrap up the meeting. I hand off notes to my paralegal, ignore the now-cold coffee someone left at my desk, and scroll through a backlog of client emails and calendar alerts—then I see a text from my brother.
MASON:Bro, we need to talk. Call me.
I stare at it for exactly three seconds before exhaling slowly through my nose and getting up from my chair.
The hallway outside is glossy and sterile, gray floors, frosted glass, hushed voices. My domain.
I step into a small side office, close the door behind me, and call.
He answers immediately.
“Mase—what’s the problem?”
