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Every acquisition, every deep-dive—none of it was ever meant to last. Until Cascadia. Until Phoenix.
Walking in, the office doesn’t feel like it used to. The staff were always decent to me, but something’s shifted since Phoenix’s last presentation—the one that’s already going viral around here, headed for the kind of infamy a senior prank gets when it’s retold ten years later.
Phyllis is the first person I see, wearing an oversized leopard-print blouse and black trousers.
“Good morning,” I greet, forcing a brightness I don’t feel.
Phyllis stiffens at the sound of my voice. “Morning,” she curtly responds before shifting her attention away.
There’s no outward hatred, nothing dramatic—just a discomfort that’s settled over the whole floor like a fine mist. Most due diligence recons don’t involve such infiltration and secrecy. No, this one presented a level of investigation that, now revealed, created a perception of favoritism and political plays that could destroy any positives in a working environment.
Good, let it burn.
Walking down the hallway to my office, two junior associates look up and stop their conversation abruptly. They avoid my gaze as I pass, where a couple of weeks ago they were begging for my input and approval. I can’t find it in me to care.
My steps falter when I reach my door. A maintenance guy is in front of Phoenix’s office, prying her nameplate off the wall.
I’ll fix this, Sugar. Promise.
The worker turns to throw the nameplate in the trash, and my body unfreezes, moving forward to stop him.
“I got that,” I say quickly, louder than needed in the small space.
He looks up, not expecting me to react so strongly to a nameplate. “Uh … sure. Here you go.” He hands me the brown plate with white letters reading “PHOENIX LANE.”
I slide it into my suit pocket, tracing the letters of her name as I make my way to my office for a moment of peace. I close the door behind me and take in the corner office assigned to me without asking if I wanted it. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Cascadia mountains, a leather chair the size of a small country, bookshelves arranged by someone else’s hand. On the corner of the desk, catching the morning light at an angle that feels almost deliberate, the Rising Star Award. My office looks like everything I was supposed to want.
I hate every part of it.
I pull the top-right drawer open, the only space I feel is mine. Inside is a crumpled receipt from Henderson’s Hardware, dated the first night I helped with the tile and got the grout spectacularly wrong. She did not let me forget it for two weeks.
Underneath it, a golf pencil from an antique shop three hours outside Cascadia. She tucked it behind her ear while she examined the vanity, dark hair falling slightly loose around it, completely unaware of how beautiful she was to me. She left it on the counter when we checked out, and I pocketed it without her knowing.
I close the drawer and open my laptop. My meeting reminder dings, alerting me it is 9:25 a.m., five minutes until the meeting I have been dreading.
I open the video conference and wait. My grandfather’s face fills the screen first, then Richard Hale, one of Morrison Rose’s managing partners, appears in the upper right corner from what appears to be his home office in Portland. Both of them in jackets and neither of them smiling.
“Jack.” My grandfather uses the shortened version when we are at the office, or he wants something. Lately, it’s both. “Good work this week.”
It’s one of the best compliments he can give someone. And yet, it falls short. I can’t remember the last time he asked whether I was sleeping or what I did outside these walls.
“The … presentation at Cascadia was an unexpected development. That clever girl revealed our cards earlier than anticipated, but the acquisition timeline remains on track. Rhodes will come around this time, I’m sure.”
Clever girl is right, old man. You don’t know the half of it.
“And if he doesn’t?” I question, feigning interest.
“He will,” Grandfather states confidently, as if it is a fact, not a prediction. “The firm’s debt structure gives him limited options. You know this.”
I have known it since he handed me the file eight months ago in his corner office, back in our downtown Portland location, and told me that Cascadia Legal Partners was worth acquiring if someone could confirm what he suspected. With the internal irregularities and billing patterns not adding up, we knew someone had access to something they shouldn’t. And yet, Morrison Rose has been wanting to break into this market. This firm with its unique specialties and outstanding reputation make it the perfect acquisition. It was a calculated risk. One I wish I spent more time calculating.
“The family law department.” Richard pulls up a file on his end, keeping us on task. “Significant drop in projected billables with the Lane resignation I see.”
“I am aware. As I have mentioned numerous times, she was a high-value resource.”
One you didn’t protect.
My grandfather studies me over his glasses. “Press harder on the remaining partners, Jackson. We want the transition airtight before the end of the quarter,” he orders as if it is that simple.
