Page 1 of Hidden Desires

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CHAPTER 1 – MY SECRET IDENTITY

Eliza

At 7:50 a.m., exactly as scheduled, I glide into the marble lobby of Gibson Grant with a determined click of my kitten heels. The fluorescent lights overhead render the place with hospital clarity—glass, chrome, and a massive aquarium filled with colorful fish. My skirt’s pressed to mathematical precision, the blouse sharp enough at the cuffs to draw blood, and the bun at the base of my skull is so tight it’s already giving me a headache. But that’s the impression that I’m trying to give because this is work, and I want people to think of me as a lady badass. After all, if they knew the secret life I’m leading, they’d be shocked, scandalized, and utterly agog.

But of course, no one at the law firm knows anything about the real me. The security guy waves me through without a word. He’s learned, after many months of smiling, that my conversational skills are reserved exclusively for work. I flash him a half-smile anyway—a habit of courtesy my mother boiled into me, like potatoes, until I couldn’t tell if it was sustenance or just starch.

Upstairs, I’m the first to reach the fifth floor. Gibson Grant’s paralegals are paid slightly above poverty wages in exchange for quietly running the world, or at least keeping the world of litigation from flying off its axis. I like the silence, the sense that my hands are already touching the gears before anyone else in the building’s even found their second sock.

On my desk: a pile of deposition transcripts, a flat, warm Coke from yesterday’s lunch, and a Post-It from last night’s me—”Don’t forget: Curtis motion, Buster v. Steele, 9:30.” I do not forget. I never forget. Some days, the only thing holding my atoms together is a lanyard of self-imposed reminders.

I log in, read through the overnight case notes, and triage the day’s emergencies. At 8:41, the first attorney breezes in. They all breeze, even the ones shaped like melted cheese sticks, because that’s how you’re taught in law school: if you’re late, it’s a power move; if you’re early, it’s a power move with a hangover.

“Morning, Eliza.” This one’s Rhonda—mid-forties, nails lacquered in an old-fashioned French, every word delivered in bullet points.

“Morning. Your docket’s on your desk and the revised Kincaid summary is in your inbox,” I say, because it’s already been there for seven minutes.

She makes a show of surprise, then swans off toward the break room, probably to test whether the coffee can melt another K-Cup machine before lunch.

The day’s first battle: the conference room at 9:30, where James Grant (senior partner, local legend, and my friend Marnie’s boyfriend) expects a flawless digest of three months’ discovery in under thirty seconds. I have not only the digest but the sub-digests, and color-coded post-its for when his temper flares and he needs a fact check within two heartbeats.

I sit at the far end of the walnut table, laptop open, the epitome of helpful invisibility.

Mr. Grant, already half-scowling, scans the documents I pass him. His blue eyes flick to mine. “You highlighted the new affidavits?”

“Yellow, as requested,” I reply, adding, “The ones contradicting last week’s statements are tabbed red.”

He nods imperceptibly. It’s either grudging approval or a prelude to homicide. I file both responses away for future use.

“Fine,” he says in a tight voice. “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”

I nod and step out, wondering if I should have asked about his new baby. After all, my friend Marnie is dating him … as well as Gibson Grant’s other senior partner, Brent Gibson. Yes, it’s exactly what it sounds like. Marnie was once a lowly paralegal here, just like me, and somehow, she got entangled with not one man, but two. Not only that, but Brent Gibson and James Grant are the co-heads of Gibson Grant itself.

Suffice to say, it was a huge scandal. It ended up with my friend quitting her job here for obvious reasons, but Marnie didn’t go away. Instead, she moved into a huge penthouse apartment, and now has a baby by her two boyfriends. Who’s the biological father? No one knows. But it doesn’t matter because my buddy is as happy as a clam with her newborn son, and even happier still with two alpha males to service her each night. Yes, our two senior partners are engaged in a menage a trois with my pretty friend, and it’s for the better, to be honest. Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant used to be ruthless perfectionists at work, and they still are. But there’s a slight edge of softness now, and I attribute that to the gentle, feminine influence of my friend.

But there’s work to be done. At around ten, the associates arrive, trailing whispers and cologne, and the room turns into a knife fight over timelines. I type and type, catching the overlapping cross-talk, threading sense out of their combined mania. When they start talking about the Carlsen brief, my own pulse kicks up a gear—I worked on that one at midnight, and it’s a disaster nobody else has noticed yet.

A particularly snide associate, Gillian, interrupts. “Eliza, didn’t you flag the jurisdiction issue in Carlsen?”

“Yes. There’s a memo in the shared folder, subfiled under 'Jurisdiction—Potential FUBAR.' I can forward it.”

Gillian narrows her evil green eyes, and the associates all smirk while looking at me as if I’ve performed a party trick. I pretend not to notice, but allow myself a nanosecond of smugness. It’s my emotional equivalent of a smoke break.

Around noon, I gather my notes, file them in the order I’ll need for the next disaster, and duck out to the restroom. I’m alone. The mirror is pitiless, but I lean in anyway, checking for rogue mascara, lipstick on teeth, or the faintest crack in my mask of unshakable composure.

Nothing. The bun’s still bulletproof, the blouse’s top button unmoved.

At my desk, the rest of the paralegals are relaxing already. One is eating from a thermos with a baby spoon. Another is scrolling through Instagram, pausing to show a meme about depositions to a friend. They all nod at me, but nobody asks about my weekend. My non-life is an open secret: I do not drink, I do not brunch, and I do not confide in anyone with a yoga mat or a gluten allergy.

Lunch is a hastily scarfed sandwich, and there’s a reason why because by 1:07, my inbox is a war zone. I answer every message with a reply that’s brief but informative. I triple-check every attachment, cc every chain, and scan every PDF for booby traps. I’m the only one who notices that the toner is running out, so I change it before the printer can have a tantrum. There is a faint dusting of black powder on my hands, so I wipe them on a Clorox wipe and continue on. That’s me: the perfect, brilliant Eliza Shaw, who gets everything done, no complaining.

But at 4:45, the office energy shifts. I recognize it immediately. The other paralegals start checking the clock, and Kayley, a pretty girl who has a date practically every night, reapplies lipstick. There’s a low, conspiratorial chatter near the break room—happy hour plans being hatched like plotlines on a trashy TV show. I already know how this will play out: a last-minute invite, a polite declination, and a double-check that nobody takes offense.

It happens at 4:52. The other paralegals—three of them, grinning—hover at my cubicle. “Eliza, do you want to come out with us? O’Malley’s is doing trivia night.”

They look at me like I’m the human equivalent of a mathlete: useful, but not entirely real. Sometimes I wonder why they even bother to invite me, but it’s obvious why. I help them so much with their work that they feel they have to invite me, just to be polite.