I drive into her harder, pressing her into the mattress so she can’t finish her threat, and she gasps, all reason wiped out by the intensity of our bodies against each other. She tips over the edge again, silent this time, eyes squeezed shut so tightly she’s probably seeing stars. The way she clings to me—fuck, it’s like she wants to crawl inside my skin.
I release her wrists to cradle the back of her head as I thrust one final time, the pleasure of my release so intense it feels like pain, causing me to nearly black out. Once the storm subsides, only aftershocks remain, both of us breathing heavily as if we just climbed a hundred flights of stairs.
I take care of the condom, knotting it and dropping it into her bedside trash can. When I turn back, Minji’s watching me through heavy eyelids, her breathing still uneven. I sink onto the mattress beside her and gather her against me, her spine curving perfectly into my chest, my arm finding its place across the dip of her waist.
“Stay,” she mumbles against my bicep, her voice thick with approaching sleep. The word holds me there as effectively as chains would. I press my lips to her hair and let her steady breathing pull me under.
CHAPTER 38
MINJI
I wishedI could have called in sick again. Aaron stayed over and tempted me to stay in bed this morning, but I have clients counting on me. As I step into the reception area off the elevator, Parras feels off. Maybe it’s the strange nod from William’s usually indifferent secretary or the two partners in the hall who go quiet when I pass, as if I’ve tracked in dog shit on the bottom of my designer shoes. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t want to be here. I count my steps to the office, fighting the urge to turn around and head to Greenwich for a hangover breakfast and a day wrapped in someone else’s weighted blanket.
Three red flags await me in my office. First, a hand-delivered envelope with my name correctly spelled for once; second, my desk calendar marked for 9:30 with ‘Caleb, William (required)’; and lastly, a Post-it from Eliza that simply says ‘<3 u,’ with a jagged heart loop.
I gently set my purse down and settle into my seat, deciding not to log on or check my schedule yet. With only seventeen minutes before the meeting, my muscles seem reluctant to move, almost as if they have unionized unexpectedly. I open the envelope, which contains heavy, watermarked stationery—Parras definitely knows how to make an impression, even on abudget. Inside, there’s a formal memo from managing partner Llewellyn, blending a subtle warning with a polite compliment.
My hands shake, not from nerves but from the blinding clarity that comes with being underestimated for the hundredth time in a row. I resist the urge to throw the letter in my tiny trash can. Instead, I fold it and tuck it into my desk drawer, next to my collection of postcards.
I honestly can’t tell whether they want me to stay at this firm. I head to the conference room, and inside the glassed-in war room, Caleb swings his chair toward the Hudson, ostentatiously casual. William’s already there, thumb-typing, but he sets the phone down immediately when I walk inside. Good God, his bow tie today is red, with confetti-like sprinkles. I wish I had burned all his bow ties when I had a chance.
Caleb gestures for me to sit, not next to William, but opposite, and I’m grateful. I might’ve crushed his toes with my heels.
“You two have been the backbone of the Thornton case,” Caleb says, then stops, letting the sentence trail off.Now that’s a fucking lie.“Now that the settlement is in sight, we need to talk about what comes next for each of you.”
Caleb starts his rehearsed speech, saying, “You’ve both performed at a rare level in this market.” If both William and I achieved such rare performance levels, one might assume William attracted more clients and had a higher success rate. I want to respond, but choose to stay silent. Caleb sighs, rubbing his temples as if wishing he were elsewhere, then mentions that William won’t be taking on additional cases while preparing for Seoul. William nods, pretending to be interested, but his eyes keep flicking toward me.
I tune the voices out as my brain splinters into two directions: the one tallying real options, and the one remembering every time Caleb has said, “I just want what’s bestfor you.” Followed immediately by what’s best for the firm, but mostly the firm.
“Minji,” he finally says, “there’s an opportunity coming up directly from Catherine herself. You’d be acting as the lead on the Sheridan case. It’s an eight-figure case, the client is notoriously difficult, and I can’t imagine anyone else handling it.” He folds his hands, a candid gesture. “But it also means letting go of some high-visibility work. You’d be focused, head-down, and locked in. Possibly for years.”
Did he just say years?
It’s a golden cage, and I know the color well. I bring in new clients only to have them taken away from me, and now I’ve been given a problematic client. I don’t know, ever since I took a leave of absence when I broke my foot, things haven’t been the same. Taking months off to heal has indirectly hurt my chances of advancing my career. It shouldn’t be like this, but office politics are ruthless. And in all honesty, men in power are fucking assholes.
I nod. “Can I have the weekend to think about it?”
Caleb glances at William, then back. “Of course.”
William gives me a look. It’s not gloating. It’s closer to caution, maybe even pity. He got to make partner in Seoul, and now I’m being given the fucking run around. Quitting this damn place would be for the best, but in true Minji nature, I really fucking hate the unknown. Just thinking about starting over somewhere else makes me want to break out in hives.
We all head in different directions after leaving the conference room. I stop by my office to grab my purse and case files, then head to the courthouse. I have a case today. By the time I arrive at Worth Street, it’s pouring rain—New York City’s weather is so unpredictable as fall approaches—and the typical chaos of umbrella battles is in full swing around the Manhattan Civil Courthouse. I take advantage of the disorder—duckinginside, riding the elevator, and reaching my courtroom before the opposing counsel, who is not only late but leaving wet shoe prints and loudly ranting into his AirPods, as if he’s performed Shakespeare off-Broadway and never quite moved past it.
Inside, my client quietly cries, embodying the typical Upper East Side mom whose husband recently left her for a Pilates instructor with an anti-aging TikTok. Even she wishes she weren’t here. Yet, she does—she has to, or the whole act unravels. We take our seats. I organize the files and family court motion forms, lining up all labeled tabs like a line of soldiers.
I briefly look around the courtroom. It’s impossible not to notice the other lawyers, each pair of shoes a mystery, each suit a uniform of some private group. Across the aisle, the defense firm’s youngest associate stares back at me, all cheekbones and nerves. I give her my usual dead-eyed smile, and she immediately looks down at her phone. I’m never in the mood to play nice in the courtroom.
By 11:15, our docket is called, the entire day shifting two minutes behind schedule in the time-honored tradition of courts across the city. My argument is straightforward and, I regret to say, a bit too brief. The judge frowns—he’s got time to burn, wants a real fight, and scolds the other side’s lawyer for not bringing complete paperwork. Today is just shaping up to be one of those ‘fuck it’ days.
As we’re leaving, my client leans in close and whispers, “Thank you. You’re not what I expected, but I think I prefer your style to my old attorney.” The old attorney she fired was an absolute moron; he made William look competent. I want to tell her I’m not trying to be likable, but instead I shake her hand with both of mine and say, “Let me know if he tries any more surprise asset shifting. We’ll be ready.” She leaves with her head just a touch higher than when she arrived, and for a moment, I think, maybe this is enough.
By the lobby doors, Aaron is waiting for me, in a suit, and honestly, I don’t know how this man can get more attractive with each growing day. But wait, how did he know I was here?
“Should I classify you as a stalker?” I tease, once I’m close enough for him to hear.
He leans against the marble column, hands in the pockets of his jacket that, somehow, does not look even a little rain-soaked. “Either that, or I’m your court-appointed emotional support animal. Need me to pee on someone’s favorite rug?”
I laugh out loud before I can fight it, but I’m already watching the faces of fellow lawyers and courthouse staff as they eye the tall, beautiful man in front of me. Some of them stare, and a few whisper. These people are seeing two rare sightings today. One, I’m laughing and two, I’m with a man. I grab his hand, taking us outside and around the corner beneath an overhang, which is how I end up flush against the wall with Aaron’s body less than an inch away.
