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Jack and Gus have been saints when it comes to The Slipper. They’ve taken it upon themselves to be my acting on-premise security, making damn sure no one makes any comments about what’s been going on. The other day, when a news crew tried to walk in and surprise interview me, Gus dropped his pants—briefs and all—in front of their cameras, so that they wouldn’t be able to air any of the footage.
Even Jacob Prince has been amazing. I don’t know if I feel comfortable using my future boss’s personal PR team, orhowI would even use them. But I did have a lovely chat with them the other day over the phone.
I take a slow breath and look across the table at Maggie.
“What are my chances?”
She frowns. “I… don’t like playing the numbers game, Ella.”
Dread pools in my gut. My face falls.
“I mean… bad?”
She clears her throat.
“It’s going to be a fight. But…” she smiles. Thinly. “We’ve got this. And we’re going to fight.”
I swallow, starring at the table as she gathers her things and stands. She steps around the table and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Look, I just don’t like to give percentage numbers or anything like that because clients will interpret them in varying ways. There isoneplus here, by the way.”
I glance up at her. “What?”
“That Noel Ransom never pressed charges after you assaulted him.”
My teeth grit. Maggie smiles and turns to leave.
“Wait.”
She stops, glancing back at me.
“Would it help my chances if part of my defense was naming another person as the guilty party?”
Maggie chews on that for a second before she answers.
“You don’t want to go down that road, Ella.”
“What if I do?”
“Against Noel Ransom? Billionaire CEO and owner of half a dozen mega-wealthy companies, friend to members of parliament and the royal family, and high level donor to the police force?” That the Noel Ransom you want to get into a finger-pointing fight with in court?”
I look away, jaw clenching.
“This is so unfair.”
“You’re right, it is,” she sighs. “It really is. Let’s focus on the fight right in front of us before we decide to go toe-to-toe with the literal system itself, shall we?”
I nod, mumbling a thanks as she leaves through the bar. I slump in my chair, dropping my head to my arms across the table.
God, do I need a drink.
I climb out of my chair and head out of the backroom and into the bar. Miles is out sick or something, so Harry has the modestly-busy-for-a-Wednesday-night bar. She’s obviously just seen Maggie leave. But when she sees my face, hers falls. She quickly finishes pouring a pint for someone before rushing down the length of the bar to me.
“Shit, talk to me.”
“I’m supposed to ‘prepare to fight,’” I groan.
She scowls. “Well, good. Then let’s get ready to fight.”
