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His grip tightens. “Come on, Gemma. I think this could work for us both.”
It’s not the first time I’ve been hit on by a client, but it’s by far the most egregious. “Let go of my wrist right now.”
He moves my fist over his length instead. “You’ve had me hard all through dinner. You seem like fun.”
I open my palm, then grab him and squeeze as hard as I possibly can. “How fun do I seem now, asshole?” I demand.
He releases my wrist at last, gasping in pain.
“You fucking bitch,” he hisses as I walk to my car.
I flip him off, but my hands are shaking as I fumble with my keys.
In a different sort of world, I’d be going straight to the police to file charges, or straight to the media to tell them what an utter douche the CEO of West Forest is. In the real world, I’m on the cusp of getting the promotion I’ve always wanted, and the last thing I need right now is to get pegged as a hysterical female and have the partners suggesting I invited what Webber just did.
I want the world to be a different place for the women who come after me. And the only way to make that happen is to ignore the fact that it isn’t different yet.
But I’m so goddamned tired of staying silent just to get the things I deserve.
6
The following afternoon, Ben asks me to meet him to discuss Lawson. Fiducia wants to settle, apparently, now that Margaret has switched to our firm.
I feel a weird sort of disappointment. I guess I was just looking forward to the fight.
We’re both working out of the municipal courthouse all afternoon, so he suggests lunch at a restaurant nearby. It would be strange, having lunch with Ben alone, but I’m so distracted by what happened last night I barely notice.
I pick at my salad while he tells me things I already know. He wants to keep opposing counsel from getting too comfortable by behaving as if we’re still going to trial. As I’d fully planned to do.
“We’ll ask for copies of the managers’ files,” Ben says, “as well as Margaret’s.”
“I’ve already written the request,” I tell him dully. “It’s in your inbox.” My fingers encircle my wrist, just beneath the sleeve of my jacket—it’s bruised. And the reminder feels like a sort of condemnation, as if I’ve done the wrong thing, letting Webber get away with it. But am I really supposed to risk my career to right the scales of justice? Can’t I just leave that to someone else?
Ben’s eyes meet mine for a long moment. “You’re quiet today.”
“I’m always quiet.”
“What did you do to your wrist?” he asks, brow furrowed.
“Nothing.” I jerk my hand away while all the blood drains from my face, hating there’s even a hint of emotion in my voice. Why the fuck am I sitting here feeling guilty about last night? Why does this stupid bruise bother me so much? If I’d complained, I’d be made to feel like shit by Webber and every man I work with. So I said nothing, yet I feel like shit about that too.
I guarantee Tim Webber hasn’t given it a second thought.
We walk outside. “I’ve called an Uber,” I tell Ben, looking past the sedan pulling up in front of us. “I can’t walk back in these heels.”
His gaze drifts to my shoes, a light flush grazing his cheekbones. “Maybe you should wear normal shoes like everyone else.”
“Maybe you should attempt to be good at your job instead of—” My words fall away entirely as a familiar face emerges from the sedan.
I’ve only seen Meg Lawrence once in six years, and the last time she pretended not to know who I was. That’s the outcome I’m hoping for, at present. She had her chance to try to make things right, and it’s long since passed.
“Gemma,” she says, blinking in surprise. Dammit.
“Meg,” I reply briskly, unsmiling.
Her gaze darts to Ben, then back to me. “It’s been ages.”
“Not long enough.” I walk past her to our car, which has just pulled up, thank God. I regret making this a thing in front of Ben, but it’s better than having her spill a story for him I’d rather no one knows.
