“Surely you can recommend some decent hitmen, given your profession.”
“That’s it.” He shut his briefcase and stood up from the chair. “Please tell your assistant that she’s the loveliest person I’ve ever met, and whenever you have something I can legally do, give me a call. Goodbye.”
“I’m not validating your parking.”
“Miss Dawson already did.” He didn’t bother shaking my hand. He just left my office.
This was such bullshit.
I paced the floor, dragging a hand through my hair, resisting the urge to pull down every painting and hurl them across the room one by one.
I’d been looking forward to this date for years.
Fuckingyears, and I’d developed the kind of patience that slowly grows into entitlement.
I assigned my in-house legal team to literally reread the terms and conditions every three months, and not once did any of them send up a red flag about this newest clause that my father somehow sent from his grave.
They’re fired…
Furious, I walked over to my desk and picked up the phone.
I knew someone who actually would break the law to help, but I wasn’t sure if it was worth it.
Yet.
I dialed the number I knew by heart, and the line didn’t even get a chance to ring.
“This is Damien Carter of Hamilton & Associates,” my private and personal lawyer answered. “What do you need?”
“I need you to start answering my calls with a greeting,” I said. “I believe I pay you enough for that, so ‘Hello, Nicholas,’ ‘Happy holidays, Nicholas,’ and ‘How are you, Nicholas,’ are a few you can choose from.”
“I charge by the minute, but since you’re in the mood to spend money on me today—hello, Nicholas. Sit back, relax, and tell me all about your childhood…”
“Point taken,” I said. “I need advice on an inheritance issue. It was due to me, but there’s been a hiccup in processing.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he said. “A consummation clause was added within the past two years, and you’re still not married.”
“How did you know that?”
“I’m your lawyer.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this shit sooner?”
“I tried to,” he said. “I called your assistant and tried to get through to you about it for months. She gave me the same excuse every time: Mr. Saint says he’ll deal with this matter later.”
“Did I get billed for these phantom phone calls and messages?”
“Absolutely.” There was a smile in his voice. “You’re getting billed right now.”
Of course.
“I need a workaround for the consummation clause,” I said. “Surely there’s some way I can get out of it, some type of ‘client is allergic to marriage’ rule so that way it doesn’t apply to me.”
“You can fake your death and sign over the money to me, if you like.”
“Then how would I get access to it?”
“I’d give you half.”
