The third, sent at 11 p.m.: "Ivy, we should talk about expectations moving forward."
Expectations. A closed-mouth scream leaks from between my lips.
Like I'm supposed to be grateful. Like I owe him my gratitude for the career Thorne bought.
I don’t know where I’ll go, but I can’t stay at Huntsman & Fellows. Do I start over somewhere else in New York? Or could somewhere else be here in Kentucky?
Not for Thorne, no, whatever was happening between us died. But Madison would be thrilled. And the poor girl’s life haschanged so much since our mother’s death. And besides my dad, what else is waiting for me in New York?
My emails disappear with a swipe, browser opening in their place. I stare at the blinking cursor for a long moment, then type: female-owned law firms in Kentucky.
Maybe I could find somewhere else in the area. Somewhere I could start fresh. Somewhere the managing partner doesn’t require me to trade sex for advancement.
The search loads. A dozen results appear, and I click through the first few. Henderson & Associates in Lexington. There are three female partners in a strong corporate practice. I open their careers page and scan the requirements. Ten years minimum experience is preferred. I have five.
I navigate back, try another. Morrison Legal Group. They are a smaller firm, but close to Madison's school. Their website is a blend of environmental compliance and land-use planning. Their client list is smaller, probably with less corporate drama. No Fortune 500 polluters trying to dodge EPA regulations. Just farmers protecting their water sources and small businesses navigating permits.
My thumb hovers over their contact link. Is this what I want? To start over at a new firm?
Or...
I open a new tab. Type: starting your own law practice in Kentucky.
The thought has my heart racing. The logistics and the startup costs alone would be astronomical.
Unless…
I open yet another tab and sign into my bank. The balance stares back at me. My mother's inheritance.
I'd expected nothing for myself. Everything for Madison. But she'd thought of me at the end. Left me the means to actually dothis. The number blurs as unexpected tears sting my eyes. Blood money. Guilt money. But also... possibility.
There’s enough for startup costs. Office rent. A cushion for the first year while I build a client base.
It doesn't erase the hurt—the years of absence, the broken promises, the choice to be a mistress instead of a mother. But it means something.
My own practice. Not working for someone else, not climbing someone else's ladder. Building something myself.
The idea terrifies me. And excites me. And feels more right than anything has in a long time.
I take a sip of my coffee, and it’s cold when it hits my tongue. I spit it back into the mug. I glance at my phone. Shit, it's 6:47 a.m.. What have I been doing for the last hour?
The sound of a car in the driveway has me flying off the couch. Too early for Madison to be returning from her sleepover at Tracy’s house. And Lillianna is in her room on the other side of this massive tomb. Could it be—
I'm at the window in half a second, peering through the morning light. A silver sedan pulls up to the front entrance and Madison climbs out of the back seat, backpack slung over one shoulder. She waves to the car, then heads for the door.
My heart squeezes. She's supposed to be at her sleepover until this afternoon.
I smooth my rumpled T-shirt. God, I probably look like hell. But there's no time to run upstairs and make myself presentable. Madison's already at the front steps.
With a breath, I work at composing my face into something that won't alarm her. It doesn't work. My reflection in the foyer mirror makes me wince. Red-rimmed eyes, hair a mess, yesterday's clothes wrinkled beyond saving.
I meet her at the door, pulling it open before she can knock.
"Hey," I say, trying for normal but failing. "You're back early."
Madison waves a hand. “Tracy’s mom won tickets to see a country singer on the radio last night. She and Tracy’s dad are driving to Nashville for some VIP show experience.” She steps around me and into the house. “Where is Thorne?”
I side-step her question, asking my own. “What do you mean? It’s early.”
