Yet suddenly, all of that means nothing.
"Questions?" Avery asks, finishing her presentation.
Harrison from the legal department raises her hand. "Excellent analysis, Atty. Cole. The Miller team will be impressed." Her tone is pointed, aimed at the whispers, and I feel a surge of gratitude for the older woman's support.
But Richard from the board isn't done. "Perhaps we should have outside counsel review this as well. Just to ensure... objectivity."
The implication hangs heavy in the air. My objectivity. Avery's competence. Everything we've both worked for has been reduced to office gossip and innuendo.
"That won't be necessary," I say, my voice carrying the edge I use in hostile negotiations. "Atty. Cole's analysis is thorough and accurate."
Richard backs down with a grumble.
After the meeting, people file out slowly, conversations buzzing with thinly veiled speculation. I'm gathering my materials when I hear it—one of the senior partners muttering to another: "Wonder if she earned that position or just got friendly with the right person."
My vision goes red. I'm halfway out of my chair when Avery's hand brushes my arm—brief, professional, barely there—and she shakes her head slightly. Her eyes hold mine for a heartbeat.
Not here. Not now.
She's right, but it takes everything in me to let her walk out of that room with her head high while people whisper behind her back.
The rest of the day crawls by in a haze of meetings and barely contained frustration. My phone lights up throughout the afternoon—texts from Avery that help me breathe:
Board loved the quarterly numbers. You killed it.
Someone left a passive-aggressive note about "maintaining boundaries" on my desk. I used it as a coffee coaster.
Thai food tonight? I need curry and complaining time.
That last one makes me smile despite everything. We've developed this routine over the past weeks—dinner at my place or hers, decompressing from the day, learning each other's rhythms outside the office walls. Last night she fell asleep on my couch while reviewing contracts, and I covered her with a blanket and worked beside her, content just to share the same space.
We haven’t officially defined what our relationship is, and I don’t mind. There’s no one else I can see myself with, and I’mthe only one who gets to see her like this. It’s… comforting, just having the space to be near her without expectations.
By 7 PM, we're sprawled on my living room floor with containers of pad thai and green curry spread between us. Avery's shoes are kicked off, her hair released from its professional bun, and she looks younger like this, more vulnerable.
"It's getting worse," she says finally, stabbing at her curry with perhaps more force than necessary. "Today, someone from Customer Service asked if I'm really…" She shows a quotation mark with her fingers, "involved with management."
The words strike something deep inside me. "Who?"
"Doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
She sets down her food and pulls her knees to her chest. "They're questioning everything, Dylan. Every case I've won, every contract I've negotiated—suddenly it's all suspect. Like the past months of sixteen-hour work days mean nothing."
I want to storm back to the office and make a scene. Want to call an all-hands meeting and list every one of Avery's accomplishments, every dollar she's saved the company, every brilliant legal maneuver she's executed.
But that's my anger talking, not strategy.
"We'll document everything," I say instead, my mind shifting into problem-solving mode. "Every case, every client testimonial. We'll build an undeniable record of your merit. Paper trail so thick that no one can question—"
"Dylan." Her voice is soft, tired. "You can't fight this for me."
"Watch me."
She looks at me with something like gratitude and exhaustion mixed together, and suddenly, I understand. This isn't just about defending her work—it's about me trying to fix something that my position makes worse. Every defense I mount only reinforcesthe narrative that she needs my protection. “I… I know you can fight your own battles, but I just hate feeling so helpless.”
"Hey. Thank you," she says quietly. "For fighting for me like this."
