“I am not free until ten PM. I know you typically hit Icehouse after the games, but this is time-sensitive. There’s a place across the road. French. Meet then?”
“Alright.”
He ends the call without saying goodbye.
The man has zero manners, although I’ve yet to meet a good lawyer who isn’t too wrapped up in their work to forget basic manners.
At nine fifty, I’m stepping intoLe Comptoir, all low light and dark wood, the kind of place where conversations stay put, and nobody blinks at late dinners. The windows fog just enough toblur the street outside, candlelight catching on polished brass and white linen.
Hugo is already here. Jacket draped over the chair like it was placed, not shrugged. Legal pad untouched. Expression grave but contained, which tells me everything I need to know.
We order without looking at the menus. Hugo doesn’t waste time.
“Your sisters contacted my office this morning,” he says.
My jaw tightens. “Why?”
“To retain us,” he replies. “Against Fairfax interests.”
“On what grounds?” I ask calmly.
He studies me. “Which is why we’re meeting here. I’m advising you to retain me personally. And because you and I had a conversation two months ago,” he pauses. We absolutely didn’t, but no one can prove that. I’ve been to his office at least twice with Claudia. “I can act quickly if this escalates.” He slides a document across the linen, pen following. “Before I say another word.”
I read it once. Sign. Slide it back.
“Good,” he says quietly. “Now we can talk.” I nod. “This isn’t about money, it’s about control. And perception.”
“I’ll handle it,” I say. “I always do.”
“Filings are being drafted. Claims of exclusion. Governance pressure. They’re arguing access.”
I lean back slightly, the restaurant hum settling around us. “They’re not being excluded, they’ve never once asked to work for Dad, just for money.”
He studies me, no doubt sensing I’m not telling him everything.
“It’s about control,” I say at last. “Perception. And money.”
His mouth tightens. “So, the rumors are true.”
“Rumors?” I ask.
“That your sisters think you’re consolidating power faster than expected,” he says. “That proximity to your father has become leverage.”
The waiter arrives before I can respond, setting down our plates with quiet efficiency. Steak frites, simply done. A seared cut resting beside crisp fries, a small green salad dressed in sharp mustard vinaigrette. He pours a Burgundy Pinot Noir that’s already breathing, then disappears.
Hugo doesn’t touch his glass or speak until the waiter leaves the area.
“If we’re going to fight this,” he says evenly, “I need to know everything.”
I nod once.
Quietly, over the steam rising from the plates, I tell him.
About the missed details, I notice before anyone else does. About the way some days are clearer than others. About the adjustments we’ve made without announcing them. About how carefully we’ve contained it.
When I finish, Hugo doesn’t speak right away.
Instead, he glances toward the window, and I follow his line of sight to the glow from Icehouse flickering against the glass.
