“Derek will show you to your office. He handles orientation for new associates.” A pause. “We’re so pleased you accepted our offer. Candidates with your particular… talents… are rare.”
Before Ava could ask what that meant, a door markedArchivesburst open.
A man stumbled through, arms full of files that immediately cascaded across the polished floor. He was around Ava’s age, East Asian, wearing a suit that had seen better days and a tie that had given up entirely.
“Sorry, sorry…” He dropped to his knees, scrambling for papers. “These are the Pemberton files. Mr. Morningstar needs them in the next five minutes, and if I don’t…” He looked up. Noticed Ava. His expression cycled through surprise, recognition, and something that might have been sympathy. “Oh. You’re the new associate. Ava Feng?”
“That’s me.” She knelt to help gather the papers. Up close, she could see the dark circles under his eyes, the slight tremor in his hands. Whatever this job was, it was eating him alive.
“Derek Liu. Paralegal, document wrangler, occasional coffee runner, and your unofficial guide to surviving your first week.” He accepted the stack she handed him with visible relief. “Thank you. Mr. Morningstar has strong opinions about tardiness. And organization. And breathing too loudly in his presence.”
“Mr. Morningstar?”
“Victor Morningstar. Senior Partner. Your direct supervisor.” Derek’s voice dropped to barely above a whisper. “He’s… particular. Just—agree with everything he says, don’t make direct eye contact for too long, and whatever you do, don’t ask about the sixty-sixth floor.”
“Why not?”
Derek’s laugh was slightly hysterical. “Because I asked, and now I work here.”
Cassandra laughed softly from behind the reception desk. Something about the sound made Ava’s skin prickle, too musical, too knowing, like she could hear conversations happening three rooms away.
Derek stood, papers somewhat organized. “Come on. I’ll show you to your office after I deliver these. Fair warning: the partners are having their Monday meeting, so things might be a little intense.”
“Define intense.”
“You’ll see.”
Ava followed him down a hallway lined with oil paintings of stern-faced men in period clothing. Jacobean collars. Puritan severity. Victorian formality. The styles spanned centuries, but something about the faces was consistent: a sharpness to the features, a depth to the eyes that made her want to look away.
Their eyes seemed to follow her.
Not metaphorically. Actually follow her. She could feel the weight of their attention on her back as she walked, could swear she saw one’s gaze track her movement in her peripheral vision.
“So what kind of law did you practice before?” Derek asked, walking fast. His voice was too loud, like he was trying to fill the silence before it could fill itself.
“I didn’t. Just graduated from Columbia in May.”
Derek stopped so abruptly she nearly collided with him. “They hired you as anassociate? Not a junior associate? Not an intern?”
“Is that unusual?”
“That’s…” He shook his head, his shoulders drawing tight. “What did you do, save Victor Morningstar’s life in a past existence?” He caught himself. “Never mind. Just be careful, okay? This place has been around since Manhattan was New Amsterdam. They have their own way of doing things. Their own rules. Their own…”
He trailed off. Didn’t finish.
“Their own what?”
“Just be careful.”
Before Ava could press further, Derek knocked on a door with a brass nameplate:V. Morningstar.
“Enter.”
Derek opened the door.
The office belonged in a different century. Floor-to-ceiling windows showed the Financial District spread out below like a kingdom awaiting orders, but everything else was antique: a massive mahogany desk that looked like it had been carved from a single tree, leather chairs worn soft by centuries of use, oil paintings of more stern men. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with volumes in languages she couldn’t identify.
And behind the desk: Victor Morningstar.
