Chapter 1
Emma
Monday - No way I’m pregnant
The opposing counsel is mid-sentence about breach of contract when my stomach lurches so violently I have to grip the conference table. Not now. Please, not now.
"As I was saying, Ms. Dawson, the contractual obligations clearly state?—"
Another wave hits. My mouth floods with saliva. I press my lips together and focus on breathing through my nose like I'm defusing a bomb instead of sitting in a negotiation for Ryan's company.
"—and therefore Shadow Strike Ventures is in direct violation of?—"
"Excuse me." I stand abruptly, my chair scraping against the polished floor. "I need a moment."
The opposing counsel—a man in his fifties with a receding hairline and expensive suit—blinks at me. "I'm sorry?"
"Bathroom. Now. Continue without me." I'm already moving toward the door, my hand clamped over my mouth.
"But Ms. Dawson, we're in the middle of?—"
I don't hear the rest. I'm sprinting down the hallway of the Preston & Associates conference room in heels that were not designed for speed, frantically searching for a bathroom sign. There. I burst through the door, barely making it to a stall before my stomach empties itself with impressive violence.
Third time this week. Third. Time.
When I finally emerge, shaky and sweaty, I catch my reflection in the mirror. Mascara smudged, lipstick gone, skin pale. I look like I've been through a war, not a contract negotiation. Although sometimes they're the same thing.
I rinse my mouth, fix my makeup as best I can, and practice my game face. Emma Dawson does not get rattled. Emma Dawson handles everything with calm professionalism. Emma Dawson is definitely not currently falling apart in a bathroom.
When I return to the conference room, the opposing counsel has gathered his papers into a nervous pile. "Ms. Dawson. Are you... quite all right?"
"Fine." I slide back into my seat, flip open my legal pad like I didn't just spend five minutes vomiting. "You were saying something about contractual obligations?"
He stares at me. "Perhaps we should reschedule?—"
"I have your client's entire argument already memorized, and I can dismantle it in approximately four minutes." I lean forward, channeling every ounce of courtroom confidence I possess. "But if you'd prefer to reschedule, I'm happy to do this again next week. When I've had even more time to prepare."
The bluff works. It always does.
Two hours later, I'm walking out with a settlement that saves Shadow Strike Ventures approximately three billion dollars. I text Ryan the good news and get back an immediate string of celebration emojis that would embarrass most CEOs. But Ryan Murphy is not most CEOs. He's my oldest brother, former Navy SEAL, and the kind of person who uses emojis unironically.
My office is a ten-minute drive from Preston & Associates, which gives me just enough time to acknowledge that something is very wrong with me before I have to shove it into a mental box labeled "Deal With Later."
The Emma Dawson Law Office occupies a renovated cottage on the Atlantic Ocean in downtown Pelican Point, Florida. It's small but mine—my name on the door, my cases, my reputation. When I opened my practice all those years ago, everyone said I was crazy to go solo so soon out of law school. Murphys work for established firms, they said. Build your reputation first, they said.
I proved them all wrong.
And now I'm drowning.
Maggie looks up from the reception desk when I walk in. She's sixty-three, has worked for me since day one, and sees right through every single one of my lies.
"You look terrible," she says cheerfully.
"Thank you, Maggie. Your support means everything to me."
"How'd it go?"
"Three-billion-dollar settlement." I drop my briefcase on her desk with more force than necessary. "Ryan's thrilled."
