At least, that’s the plan until our father’s booming voice cuts through the chatter and hum of the morning bustle.
“Rosie! Cain! My office. Now!”
I flinch, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim of my cup. That tone is never good.
Cain, ever the dutiful eldest child, doesn’t hesitate, striding ahead even though he’s still juggling his own briefcase, coffee, and probably ten client emails buzzing his phone.
I follow a step behind, less enthusiastic about the impending lecture or whatever crisis our father has decided is worth interrupting our normal morning meetings for.
We weave through the maze of glass-walled offices, turning left, then right, until we reach his in the corner with its sprawling one-eighty views of downtown Manhattan.
It’s breathtaking, even now, with the city blanketed in fresh snow. Flurries drift lazily past the windows, softening the sharp edges of the skyscrapers beyond.
There’s a small part of me that wonders what it’d be like to take a day off just to enjoy this weather. I immediately ignore thatthought. Because the last time I went out in the snow just for fun was when I was a child.
Too bad the picturesque view won’t do much to soften whatever storm my father's cooking up for us.
“Have a seat,” he says, gesturing to the two deep red velvet chairs in front of his desk. There are no pleasantries. No“How are my two brilliant children doing? The only family I still have left.”
Classic Dad.
I sit down, sinking into one of the plush chairs and stretching my toes in my too tight heels.
I’ve long stopped expecting warmth from our father. I’m annoyed by my father’s coldness mostly for Cain. Ever since he married Rhiannon and became a dad, Cain’s been nothing short of remarkable at balancing work and family.
He’s mastered compartmentalizing, leaving the office at a reasonable hour, and keeping his weekends sacred, meeting and client free. Even working virtually from their home in Connecticut as much as he can.
Piper’s lucky to have him. He’s nothing like the father we got. And yet, our own dad hardly makes an effort to visit her, his only grandchild. Maybe Cain prefers it that way.
I glance at my brother, who seems unfazed by the shift in his Monday plans as he smoothly transitions into business mode.
“How can we help?” he asks, his tone professional, direct.
But Dad doesn’t look at him first. Which is… highly unusual and a bit alarming.
His eyes lock on me instead, and for a moment, the steel in his gaze falters.
I’ve been trained not to flinch under pressure, especially not in a courtroom, but something about the way he’s looking at me makes my stomach tighten. It’s like he might regret what he’s about to say.
“I have a new client that I just signed,” he begins, his voice steady. “He’s in trouble and needs our help.”
“Okay…” I prompt, glancing at Cain, who remains completely emotionless. All our clients are in trouble. I can’t see how this is worth calling a special meeting to discuss.
“It’s a professional hockey player with the Manhattan Mayhem.”
Oh.
My brows rise. I glance at Cain again, but he gives nothing away.
Athletes aren’t usually our firm’s bread and butter. We specialize in artists, actors, influencers—the kind of clients who see life as a stage.
We’re an entertainment firm, not a sports firm. And the only time I’ve dealt with one was in retirement, helping them navigate lawsuits tied to their second careers.
But an active NHL player? That’s uncharted territory for me and the firm.
“What’s his deal?” Cain asks, breaking the silence.
Dad exhales sharply, like the weight of the case is already pressing on him. “He’s caught up in a series of legal issues after several bar fights involving him and some teammates. The most serious incident happened here in New York City about a month ago. There’s an ongoing investigation, and photos surfaced of him holding a broken piece of glass to another man’s throat.”
