"Oh no. What did you do?"
"Helped stop a wedding. Long story. Also, I might be in love with the woman who orchestrated it."
Milly will be on speakerphone within thirty seconds. "Our Jane did all this? I like her more already. Tell me everything."
They'll get it. They always do. Prescott Legal manages accounts for billionaires across the Eastern Seaboard, but protecting bad behavior isn't in the charter. Protecting people who deserve it—that's the family business.
And Blake Hartwell doesn't deserve protection.
Natalie Ashford does.
There'll be fallout. Awkward encounters at charity galas. Clients choosing sides. Maybe a few who take their business to the Hartwells out of loyalty or cowardice.
But Mom will handle it with the same dry precision she applies to everything, and Milly will make a crack about "finally having something interesting to discuss at book club."
And I'll sleep well knowing we stopped a woman from marrying a monster.
Jane catches me standing there. The grin that spreads across her face accelerates my heart rate more than the five-mile run.
"Hey, you! We did it."
Not you did it. Not I can't believe that worked.
We.
Something in my chest loosens. Whatever media circuscomes from the collapse of the Ashford-Hartwell merger—worth it.
"You're in a good mood," I manage.
"I'm feeling victorious." She taps the laptop screen. "Do you know how rare this is? A plan that actually worked? Not 'sort of worked if you squint' but actually, completely worked? And it's thanks to what you captured in the King's Room."
I cross to her. Pull out the chair beside hers. Sit close enough that our knees bump under the counter.
"You don't usually celebrate?"
"I don't usually have time. Or anyone to celebrate with, honestly. And most of my cases are simple. I never had to learn how to seduce a billionaire from a hockey player before." Her eyes are bright. Alive. Electric. "Which is why we're doing this right."
"Doing what right?"
"The handoff. With the bridesmaids." She's scrolling her phone now, multitasking the way she does when her brain's running at full capacity—three thoughts at once, all of them sharp. "They're getting the best news of their lives for their friend. So I've set up a debrief brunch. Walk them through the evidence package. And I want to feed them something amazing and special. Something from home. Boston Lobster Pie."
I scan the counter. Thick folders. USB drives labeled with dates and timestamps. A printed timeline. Beside them: butter, lemons, garlic, herbs, a bag of Ritz crackers.
I watch her lean forward, bottom lip caught between her teeth while she studies a recipe on the laptop. The way she chews when she's calculating.
This is what she looks like when she's not in survival mode. Not scrambling or performing or deflecting. Just thinking.
She looks capable. Competent. Like she has no idea she's this good.
"I could have ordered from the resort," she says, not looking up. "But that feels too room-service. Too impersonal. I suddenly want to cook up a storm and celebrate with the team."
"What are you thinking?"
"Something that says 'we actually care that your friendisn't marrying a monster' instead of 'here's some catered sandwiches.'"
I stand and move behind her. Wrap my arms around her waist from behind, pressing my chest to her back, my chin settling on her shoulder. She makes a soft noise and leans into me.
"West—"
