I read it once. Twice. The words stay exactly the same.
Someone behind me laughs at a joke. The espresso machine squeals again. A chair scrapes. The girl with the acceptance letter giggles as her mom wipes foam off her lip.
The world keeps going. Loud. Bright. Normal… While my vision tunnels until the only thing that exists is that one text bubble.
My hands shake. The phone slips from my fingers, clattering onto the table as a sob catches in my throat.
I press my fist against my mouth, biting down on my knuckles to keep quiet. The last thing I need is to let out an omega whine in a place full of parents and students. I won't be the stereotypical, emotional omega who needs coddling and attention.
A couple eating cheesecake in the corner stills. The girl's fork hangs in the air as she stares at me. Her boyfriend leans in, whispers something. She shakes her head, eyes going soft and distant in a way that saysoh noandthank god that's not meat the same time.
The girl with her parents accidentally makes eye contact with me and quickly looks away, like my misery might be contagious.
I stare at my screen again, waiting for another message.
Just kidding, I'm outside. Turn around.
Nothing.
Just that one little paragraph ending three years of relationship.
Chapter one
Naomi
The corporate lawyer across the aisle has the kind of smirk that costs five hundred dollars an hour.
"Your Honor," he says, voice slick, "market conditions have altered the landscape of this agreement. My client acted in good faith, but—"
“But nothing,” I cut in, already on my feet.
The judge’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t stop me. He knows how this goes. We’ve danced this dance before.
I step into the center of the room, heels clicking. This is my favorite part.
“The defense wants us to believe a signed contract becomes optional when inconvenient.” I turn toward my client. “That a small business owner, Mrs. Vance, who you’ve heard testify today, should accept a corporation can walk away from its obligations because it found a cheaper supplier.”
She sits ramrod straight at the plaintiff's table, fingers clenched around a stack of papers. Behind her, in the gallery, her daughter and granddaughter watch from the wooden bench, the little girl staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
“The contract my client signed is clear.” I tap the exhibit binder. “Payment upon delivery of goods, as specified in section 4.2. Those goods were delivered on time, to specification, with documented proof of quality standards met and exceeded.”
The exhibit screen behind me flashes with dates, signatures, delivery confirmations. The opposing counsel shifts like his chair suddenly got uncomfortable.
"This isn't a 'changing market.' It's not a legal gray area." I let my gaze flick to him, then back to the judge. "It's corporate theft dressed up in jargon."
Someone in the gallery coughs. The silence sharpens.
“Contracts exist precisely because wecan’tpredict the future,” I go on, tone even. “If parties were allowed to walk away whenever things became inconvenient, every business in this city would be one email away from collapse. My client did everything right. The defendant simply decided to act in bad faith.”
I step back toward my table, every movement deliberate, not a crack showing.
“The law doesn’t reward opportunism,” I finish. “It holds people to what they promised.”
I sit, and the sound of my chair meeting the floor might as well be a gavel cutting in my favor.
The judge removes his glasses and wipes them slowly with a folded handkerchief. Classic Judge Haddad, dragging out the suspense.
"Ms. Quinn makes a compelling argument," he says at last.
