“I’d liketo direct your attention to these,” I say, sliding a stack of printed DMs from Monica Becker’s account across the table toward the mediator. “They clearly suggest that Mr. Becker was engaged in an affair. These messages were sent to my client directly from the other woman, along with pictures corroborating the relationship.”
My voice doesn’t waver. It never does. Monica sits beside me, her posture rigid but her chin lifted in defiance. I nod at her as a gesture of support. Despite her husband being a fancy professional baseball player, we’re going to get what she deserves with the affair evidence. It’s the perfect leverage for settling financial matters.
Across the table, Chad Becker sits. I remember what Hess said about him a couple of months ago—that he’s known for being a great guy—but right now, he’s too ashamed tomeet anyone’s eyes. His lawyer? He’s practically glowing with anticipation. He flips open his portfolio, smooth and confident, like he’s been waiting for this exact moment.
“With respect,” he says, sliding his own folder across the table, “we have evidence that these messages are fabricated. The photographs were doctored. The metadata shows they originated from your client’s device. And further, we can demonstrate that Mrs. Becker has been carrying on her own affair.”
The words land like a grenade.
I stare down at the papers he has presented, my pulse hammering in my ears. Screenshots. Metadata. Testimony. It’s airtight. Monica Becker swore she’d never lie to me, and because of that, I believed every word she said about her husband. But she did lie—lied in a way that makes me look like the fool.
The mediator clears her throat, trying to regain control of the room, but her voice is muffled under the roar in my head.
I think I’ve lost my edge.
Richard doesn’t waste time.Once I’m back from mediation, he’s already called me into his corner office, door shut like he’s about to yell.
“This was one of our biggest cases of the year, and you failed us because you weren’t prepared.” His voice is sharp, each word precise. “You walked into that meeting blind, and we looked like amateurs. That’s not acceptable for someone who claims she’s ready to make partner.”
My jaw tightens.Claims?As if every eighty-hour week, every case I’ve carried on my back, has been nothing but posturing.
Richard adjusts his cufflinks, casual, almost bored. “Look, I’ve always believed in your potential. But after this? I’m not sure I can take the risk. Partner requires flawless judgment, and today…”—he shakes his head slowly—“today proved you’re not there yet.”
And there it is.
The carrot.
Always dangling, never close enough to reach. Always some excuse, some impossible standard. He’ll never give me that promotion. I don’t think he ever intended to.
Something inside me cracks, splits wide open to the core.
I hate this job.
I hate the long hours that shackle me here. I hate the endless parade of broken marriages, the clients who lie and manipulate, each convinced they’re the innocent one. I hate the constant negativity that I let seep into me for years, corrode me, convince me that love and marriage are just illusions waiting to crumble.
And I hate that I’ve let this job and my success here define me.
I don’t want to do this anymore.
I stand, smoothing my skirt with steady hands. Richard looks up, eyebrows raised, expecting me to beg for another chance.
My chin lifts, defiance ruling my gaze. “I quit, Richard.”
“What, because you got a slap on the wrist?”
“No, because I’ve outgrown this place.”
I don’t wait for him to recover. My heels click against the marble as I walk out, and with each step, the weight on my chest lifts just a little more.
Yes, the life I’ve built is crumbling.
But maybe it needs to, so I can rebuild stronger.
Hess
“You quit?” I try to keep my jaw off the floor, but it doesn’t work. “Just like that?”
She shrugs, one shoulder lifting. “I couldn’t do it anymore.” Her fingers trace the laminated edge of the Waffle House menu even though we’ve already ordered.
