“Bad move.”
“Bad move.” She parrots. Then her nose wrinkles. “Which also means you’re now Dom’s only paralegal.”
The words land like a stone in my stomach.
Fuck.Amber might have been a big pain in my ass, but she was also my buffer. Now when Dom calls at midnight, there’s no one else. When he needs weekend work, it’s just me. When he takes a case that makes me want to shower after reading the files, I can’t pass it to Amber anymore.
Alex pockets her phone. Studies me for a moment.
“Does Dom still ask about your dad?”
The question hits like it always does—guilt wrapped in absurdity wrapped in five years of elaborate deception.
“Every week,” I answer, drawing out the words. “Last time I told him the puppy learned to sit.”
“You’re in too deep.”
“I’m in too deep.”
Five years ago, I panicked when Dom called me in for weekend work. Told him I couldn’t—my dad was in the hospital.
My dad died when I was twelve in a car accident right after beating cancer.
But Dom was so sympathetic. Asked about him every week. So I kept making up stories. New puppy. Health updates. The whole thing. Alex helps me keep the timeline straight.
Twenty-seven years old and I’m still lying about my dead father.
It’s a terrible lie. One that makes me feel worse every single time it comes up.
“Just let me know how his health is on Sunday so I can keep it going,” Alex says.
My phone rings. Perfect fucking timing.
Dom.
My stomach drops. My hand tightens around the wine bottle. Friday night at 8 PM. This is never good.
“Sir,” I answer, hoping I am not giving away I’ve been drinking.
“Dylan. Good.” He pauses, and in the background I can hear papers shuffling. “I need you.”
NotCan you come in?NotDylan, I need help with something specific.
Dylan, I need you.
Like I’m his. Like my Friday night was never really mine to begin with.
“Sir, what can I help you with?” I set my wine aside despite Alex’s pout.
“I need you in the stacks. Discovery documents for the Patterson case need organizing and indexing by tomorrow morning.”
Patterson. The pharmaceutical exec accused of covering up trial deaths. Of course it needs to be done this weekend. Dom’s big cases always need weekend work, and I’m always the one who does it.
The stacks. The creepiest room at Draven & Associates. Basement-level archives with emergency stairs that have fluorescent lights. Where I’m convinced ghosts of bad legal decisions go to die.
And it’s Friday night. I literally just left the office three hours ago.
“Of course, sir. I’ll be there within the hour.”
