I’d spent forty-five minutes this morning trying to look like I hadn’t demolished half a bottle of tequila while frantically searching for information on “spontaneous ice powers” and “glowing blue eyes medical condition” until three in the morning. The bags under my eyes had bags. My usual sleek black bun had a few rebellious strands escaping, and I hadn’t realized until now that my blouse was buttoned incorrectly.
“Thanks.” I clutched my to-go coffee closer, the heat of it a welcome contrast to the chill that had clung to me since last night’s date from hell. “Did Bartlett send the elves in early this year, or am I hallucinating?”
Trinity beamed. “We’re doing a winter wonderland theme. Isn’t it magical?”
Magical was not the word I would have chosen. More like migraine-inducing, or pathologically cheerful.
“Nothing says ‘we’ll ruthlessly defend your freedom from your cheating ex’ like tinsel and candy canes.” I forced a smile before shuffling toward the elevator, Trinity’s tinkling laugh following me like Christmas bells.
Why was my brain comparing everything to Christmas now? I needed a detox already, and it wasn’t even December.
My office was a mercifully decoration-free zone and immediately calmed me with its gray-scale aesthetic that matched my personality perfectly. Everyone joked it looked like a prison cell with better furniture, but to me, it was a sanctuary of control in a world determined to sprinkle unwanted sparkle on everything it touched.
I slumped into my ergonomic chair and pulled up the day’s calendar while downing half my coffee in one desperate swallow. Two client meetings, document prep, and a front-row seat to one of the longest divorces I’d ever seen.
I’d just choked down two aspirin when a message popped up on my computer screen. Bartlett had moved the Weston divorce meeting to nine instead of eleven. In exactly twenty minutes.
I frantically pulled up the case files and printed out the most recent correspondence. The Weston divorce was not what I wanted to deal with today. They were two obscenely wealthy people determined to punish each other through their children and belongings. They’d been fighting over a taxidermy elk’s head for three months. Mrs. Weston’s grandfather had shot the elk, but Mr. Weston claimed it was his emotional support animal.
The whole thing was ridiculous, not to mention it made mesick to my stomach. Like vomit-in-the-nearest-potted-plant level of sick, which would’ve been a shame because the ficus in the corner was the closest thing I had to office decor.
By some miracle, I made it to the conference room with one minute to spare, legal pad in hand and a fresh coat of nude lipstick applied to at least give the illusion of having my life together.
“Ah, Ms. North.” Mr. Bartlett didn’t look up from his phone as I entered. “No coffee for the clients today?”
I pasted on my best professional smile as Mrs. Weston swept into the room in a full-length fur coat. In Palm Springs. In November.
“I’ll get that right away.” I pivoted and nearly collided with Mr. Weston, who wore a camel hair blazer with actual shoulder pads. Like we were still in the eighties.
Five minutes later, I’d arranged an elaborate coffee service, complete with the special raw sugar cubes Mrs. Weston insisted on, and taken my seat at the corner of the table. My role was clear: take notes, look engaged but not too engaged, and never, under any circumstances, offer an opinion.
“Now, regarding the summer home in Aspen.” Bartlett shuffled through some papers. “Mrs. Weston, you’ve requested full ownership despite Mr. Weston having inherited the property from his family.”
Mrs. Weston’s acrylic nails tapped rhythmically against the conference table. “I’ve spent twenty years making that house a home. The Christmas traditions alone are worth the value of the entire property.”
“Oh, please.” Mr. Weston’s eye roll was better than any hormonal teenager’s. “You hate Christmas. You complained about the tree shedding every single year.”
“I most certainly did not.”
“You made the staff vacuum three times a day!”
“Because you tracked pine needles everywhere like some kind of forest animal!”
“The children always enjoyed opening their presents with me on Christmas morning.”
“Only because you bribed them with those ridiculous electronic gifts!”
“They were educational!” Mr. Weston slammed his hand on the table, jostling the delicate coffee service I’d so carefully arranged.
Mrs. Weston’s laugh could’ve cut glass. “A four-thousand-dollar drone is educational? The neighbors called the police when it crashed through their skylight during Christmas brunch!”
“At least I didn’t force them into those hideous matching sweaters for your Instagram holiday card.” Mr. Weston loosened his tie with aggressive yanks. “They looked like hostages.”
“They were adorable, and you know it.” Mrs. Weston’s nostrils flared as she turned to her lawyer. “He’s bitter because the children prefer Christmas with me.”
“Is that why Madison cried when you wouldn’t let her spend Christmas Eve at my place last year?”
My pen snapped between my fingers, blue ink spreading like blood across my immaculate notes. “The only thing those children ever wanted was parents who gave a damn about their happiness instead of using them as pawns in your petty games.”
