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Prologue | Miles | Two Years Earlier
“Yes,”Isnap,notglancing up from the legal brief I’ve been working on for three months straight, even though someone has entered my office. Without knocking.
“Miles.”
The low, disembodied tone shoots straight through me. No one in this building calls me that except my father, and even he rarely uses my given name. And neversonor anything to indicate we’re blood relations.
Whatever lured him down from his top floor corner office, where he and the other partners keep tabs on the rest of usassociates,I’m not sure. But I won’t have to wait long to find out.
I turn and meet his steel-blue eyes. Mr. Beaufort III, Esq. is wearing a black herringbone suit, black croc-skin leather penny loafers, and a disapproving glare.
He doesn’t take a seat, and I don’t invite him to. My father is here to deliver a message or make a demand, and he’ll do so then be gone.
“HR tells me you’ve burned through six assistants in the last two months.”
I hold his gaze. He doesn’t need my confirmation, and he won’t tolerate any excuses. He’s going to tell me what he wants, and his word will be law because he rules the firm, just like he rules his household. With an iron fist.
“I’ve already approved double pay for your next one.”
I remain silent and maintain the neutral expression I’ve honed to perfection over the years. My father throws money at problems. It’s his go-to strategy. And why not? The man was born rich, and his wealth has only multiplied over the years. Plus, it usually works.
“HR is down to the one last candidate, who apparently isn’t the best fit for the firm, but I gave them the green light. I don’t want to be bothered with this issue again.”
Translation: Don’t fuck up.
“Saturday is the fundraiser at the museum. It’s black tie.”
He’s gone before I can respond. Not that I planned to. There’s no discussion to be had. I’m stuck with whoever HR waltz’s in here next and will be there on Saturday in my tuxedo, of course. I turn back to my brief with a resigned sigh. If I wasn’t aiming for partner, looking to fill my father’s shoes at the most prestigious firm in the city, I wouldn’t bother.
Lauryn | Tuesday
Thedamncopymachineis broken. Again. Sure, it’s brand-spanking new and super energy efficient, but it also has more features than anyone in their right mind would ever want or need.
In the past ten minutes, I’ve successfully extracted exactly one half of a ripped sheet of the legal brief I’m trying to copy from zone C1. Meanwhile, the display screen flashes with at least four other paper jam locations, one of which I can’t pinpoint any better than my last boyfriend could find my clit. And I have a diagram.
At least, I’m free to complain here. The copy room is the one location on our floor where associates would never be caught dead. Especially not my boss, Miles Beaufort, IV, son of the founding partner at the firm. And why would he when I’m as competent in my role as his personal assistant as he is at vanquishing prosecutors?
I let out a string of curse words, so long my friend, Trish, glances over from the binding machine with one perfectly plucked eyebrow raised. “Everything okay over there?”
“Everything is just peachy,” I confirm through gritted teeth.
“I meant with you, not the machine.” She drops what she’s doing and joins me, kneeling to help hunt for every last jam. The poster child of a true friend.
“I’m fine,” I insist, my fingertips jet black from the dry ink powder. There’s no way that’s staying off my yellow dress.
She slings me a side eye. “You were whispering on your cell phone this morning and then slammed it down on your desk so hard Lenny in the mailroom probably felt the tremors and wondered if it was a magnitude three quake.”
“I did not.” Okay, I did, but I plead innocent.
“Then,” she says, successfully fishing an accordion-folded piece of paper from the duplex unit, “you stared out the window into the dreary gray clouds for at least ten minutes.”
“Did not.”
“And I know you weren’t daydreaming abouthimbecause when you do, your face is all radiant glow with a hint of smile, and this morning, it was furrowed brow and pensive frown.”
She means Miles, and I can’t deny that one. I sit back on my heels with a sigh. “The Charmont Harvest Festival is on Saturday.”
“Your favorite,” she exclaims, and she’s right. Normally, I look forward to my hometown’s annual event every October. My family’s apple orchard is one of the major draws, and the single day brings in the bulk of the revenue for the entire year. “Are you taking Friday off?”
