One night doesn’t create this kind of... whatever the hell this is.
And next week we do it all over again.
Fuck me.
7
Amara
The weekend passes in a blur of Manhattan caseloads and black coffee.
I wake up Monday morning feeling like someone replaced my brain with concrete and my throat with sandpaper.
Oh God.
I forcefully drag myself upright and immediately regret it. My head pounds like there’s a tiny judge inside calling for order with a gavel. My skin feels too hot and too cold at the same time, which shouldn’t be physically possible but hey, here we are.
You worked all weekend reviewing Manhattan contracts.
What did you think would happen?
Corin told me to take the weekend off. I ignored him because I’m a professional adult who doesn’t need a billionaire telling me when to rest.
Turns out the billionaire might have had a point.
I stumble to the bathroom and splash water on my face. My reflection looks like a deposition gone horribly wrong. My pale skin looks even more washed out than usual, while the darkcircles under my eyes could qualify as their own legal brief. And don’t even get me started on my hair.
“You look great,” I tell my reflection sarcastically. “Very ‘competent attorney,’ not at all ‘extra from zombie movie.’ Oh no.”
I should go back to bed. Any reasonable person would call in sick.
But I’m not reasonable.
I’m Amara Khan, fixer extraordinaire, the woman who once worked through food poisoning during a critical merger negotiation.
I can handle a little tropical flu or whatever this is.
Famous last words.
I dress in a loose linen dress because anything fitted sounds like actual torture right now. I apply sunscreen, then bug spray. The usual necessities against Eleuthera’s elements. Except today the smell of both makes my stomach turn.
At least the new rental the car company sent starts the first time. That’s gotta count for something, right?
The drive to the clinic is a blur of too-bright sunshine and roads that seem deliberately designed to maximize nausea. We’re talking these steep, sea-side cliffs where any wrong turn would send my car over the edge and sinking upside down into the ocean.
When I finally pull into the clinic parking area, I spot Corin’s SUV already there. Early as usual.
There’s someone leaning against the building in the shade. Probably one of his security guys. I’ve started noticing them more. Shadows that move when Corin moves, always positioned near exits, always watching. It should be creepy but instead it’s just sort of fascinating in a “wow, rich people live differently” kind of way.
I grab my canvas tote and legal pad, then immediately regret the sudden movement as that angry judicial officer inside my head starts pounding her gavel again.
You can do this.
Just get through today.
Tomorrow you’ll feel better.
Outside, the warm weather is bearable. However, when I step inside, I immediately feel like turning back, because the clinic’s concrete walls trap heat like a legal argument traps opposing counsel.
