The date was a total bust. I didn’t even get a kiss from the woman who spent forty minutes explaining why bees are a fundamental pillar of the global ecosystem.
On my second attempt—this time at a discreet little dive bar—I thought I’d walked onto the set of a hidden-camera prank show.
This woman was dead serious as she assured me that foreign milk contains Chinese microchips for tracking our daily lives, and that aliens are currently colonizing Eastern Europe to prep for a global takeover.
That night was an unprecedented psychological endurance test. I eventually found myself in a position where I had to fake a period emergency just so I could escape.
A few weeks later, I’m looking over the case file delivered by the prosecutor again. I’d completely put it out of my mind, but on second thought, it might be one of the most convoluted cases on my desk. Then again, that’s exactly what I want. I’ve always had a thing for the complicated ones.
I open the first few pages and lose myself in a sea of numbers and allegations—most of them lacking any real supporting evidence. It’s a lot of speculation on the prosecution’s part. My secretary knocks on the door, signaling that my day is wrapping up. I must have spent far too long comparing graphs in these files. To satisfy my curiosity, I pull up the company’s director on my computer. I’m stunned when I see the name associated with a face that feels so familiar. Kelsey Calama. Thirty years old. Both parents died in a car wreck a decade ago.
She was groomed for the position she holds. I’ve never actually met her in person, even though we run in very similar social circles. In her photos on gossip sites, there’s usually a hand blocking her face from the camera.
On corporate websites, she looks incredibly young. I met and spent time with her parents a few times. Mostly at wedding anniversaries and events my mother organized, but she was never there.
Eddard always claimed his daughter was busy with a course, studying, or living abroad. Her profile is... intriguing. In the photos, even the ones where her face is obscured, she’s striking. She has that desfem lesbian aesthetic but with incredibly delicate features. She’s gorgeous, the kind of woman built to turn heads and break hearts.
Homeschooled, finished college early, and holds a postdoc in Political Science and International Management. Scrolling further, I notice she’s always flanked by beautiful models. She’s had a few flings with Hollywood actresses and even did a stint modeling for a perfume brand.
I force myself back to the text that actually matters. After reading, re-reading, and scouring the case again, I still can’t figure out what the prosecution is playing at. The evidence isn't just weak; it’s non-existent. To me, this looks like a hit job, not a legal case.
Sure, some things are likely happening, such as underreporting tonnage during iron shipments, most likely.
I fix an espresso and lean against the kitchen counter, mulling over what to do with this offshore case. I head back to my desk and compulsively type out my decision that I will force a settlement.
I flip my pen between my fingers, weighing the impact on my reputation. Even if I catch some flack from The Outfit, it’s all small-time local drama, and certainly, nothing that would derail my life on a national level.
In an email I’d pre-drafted on a notepad, I confirm a meeting with the prosecutors and the defendants. I want this cleared a day before I leave for New York. I take my anti-anxiety meds and, while waiting for the familiar calm to kick in, I double-check my flight and hotel in NYC.
After a quick goodbye to my staff, I wait for the legal teams involved in the offshore case. Nothing notable happens. My feet are killing me, so I kick my shoes off under the desk while I wait. I realize I’m wound tight. Too many variables I can't control:time, space, and the general competence of the people whose lives land on my desk.
So, then...
I swivel my chair around and stare out at the Wilmington port. I definitely won't miss this view.
I hear the prosecutor’s voice and spin back around. I’m still barefoot. The man looks exhausted, his face flushed red from the chill outside. It’s not freezing yet, but winter is definitely starting to bite.
"A settlement, Megan?" He looks at me with pure disbelief as he sits down.
"You know it’s the smart move. There’s no concrete evidence. I’m not putting a billionaire behind bars based on hearsay and vibes," I say, keeping my voice level and my posture perfect.
"I've been trying to find a loophole in this woman’s operation for years," he sighs, taking a deep breath.
" Let's drop the prosecution." I hold up a hand before he can protest. "You know how this ends. Her defense team would tear you and our office’s reputation to shreds. Can you imagine the media circus? The Secretary of Trade might step in and order an embargo. Let’s be smart... take the deal and save everyone the time."
I get up, walk to the sideboard behind my desk, and grab a bottle of vodka and two glasses. I ask for ice, which is brought in immediately.
"Looking at it that way, I guess you're right. But Calama is slippery, Megs. She clearly has ties to the cartels and mafias, but no one can pin anything on her."
"If no one can catch her and she’s a major exporter for this country, who am I to try, my dear?"
"Nothing’s ever simple, is it? Is this your last case?" I nod, dropping ice into the glasses and handing him one. "Well, let’s toast to that."
We exchange a few words and the desk phone rings, announcing that the company lawyer is on his way up. It wasn’t a man, but a woman in her forties with a presence that commands the room. She’s wearing a perfectly tailored suit and carrying a moss-green briefcase.
"Ryden Common, Ms. Calama's lawyer." She shakes hands with me and the prosecutor before sitting. I gesture toward a glass; she nods. I pour her a drink and lace my fingers together on the desk.
"Well… I’m suggesting a closed-door settlement. You two go into that room over there," I point. "And don't come out until you have a deal."
