I draw a measured inhale and turn to face Tamara, who has gone from explosive to brittle in the time it takes for footsteps to fade down a hall. She’s hunched over, the fragile architecture of her composure rebuilt from a single trembling tissue which she blots beneath her eyes in small, furious dabs.
“Now.” I push aside the mess on the table to retrieve my legal pad, “Let’s talk strategy.”
Tamara’s head jerks up, surprised by the absence of judgment. The world expects anger, pity, or even a lecture on appropriate conference-room decorum, but I only have time for results. She sniffs, dabs again, and gives me a sheepish look. Somewhere inside, a switch flips: she’s no longer a woman on the edge, but a client with a mission.
The remainder of the hour is productive, thankfully. I lead her through the next steps: asset tracing, forensic accounting, the tactical deployment of subpoenas and depositions. Every phrase is a step deeper into the familiar trench warfare of divorce, and with each minute, I see her reclaim more of herself. By the time I’m refilling her water and sliding a fresh set of exhibits across the table, Tamara is upright, her voice steadier, her hands no longer hunting for projectiles.
“Thank you, Minji,” she says at last, eyes now less glassy. “I’m sorry about…” She gestures vaguely at the detritus, her hand flapping like a marionette with a snapped string.
“We have a cleaning crew for a reason.” With a dismissive wave of my own, already making a mental note to tip extra this month. “It’s not the first time and won’t be the last. Divorce brings out strong reactions.”
She laughs, a brief, ugly honk that sounds more like relief than joy. Then, as if the whole episode were a bad fever dream,she re-applies her lipstick, lifts her purse, and exits from the room.
I take a moment alone, exhaling slowly. Two years to the day since my last client meltdown, and Aaron had to witness this one. Perfect. When I finally push open my office door, there he is—lounging in my chair like he owns it, feet propped on my polished desk, scribbling away in that leather-bound notebook of his.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable.” I shut the door behind me.
He glances up, a dimple forming as he grins. “I thought you might appreciate a bit of normalcy after dodging paperweights and binders.”
“And you believe finding a man sitting in my chair is normal?” I arch an eyebrow but can’t summon my usual edge. The Tamara tornado has left me drained.
Aaron lowers his feet and stands, presenting my chair to me with a dramatic flourish. “My apologies, Counselor.”
“Thanks for stepping in back there.” I sigh, dropping into my seat with a sigh. “Though you really shouldn’t have.”
Aaron leans against my desk. “You’re welcome. Though you seemed to have it handled.”
“Did I?” I chuckle without amusement. “She almost took my head off with anything she could get her hands on.”
“But she didn’t.” His eyes lock with mine.
“Reflexes of someone who took ju-jitsu for eight years growing up.” I massage my temples as a headache begins to set in. “I really need some coffee.”
Just as I’m about to reach for my phone to ask Eliza, Aaron heads to the door. “I’ll get it. Iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot, right?”
I blink, surprised. “How did you?—”
“I pay attention.” He gives a wink and exits the office.
Alone, I let my shoulders relax. The Wilcox case will be tough—Richard has ties to Manhattan’s financial elite and will put up a fierce fight. Yet, there’s a savage satisfaction in pulling the rug out from under men like Richard. The ones who think their wallets are invisibility cloaks, who treat loyalty as a one-way street running straight to their own ego. I’ve seen the aftermath too many times: good women gaslit into thinking they’re asking for too much, or that a decade of invisible labor is just a footnote on a balance sheet. No—this time, the footnote is going to read:You underestimated Minji Lee, you arrogant prick.
While I’m drafting this mental memo, Aaron reappears. He’s balancing two venti cups almost gracefully. He sets one in front of me, the cup’s lid still pristine. He takes the seat across from me, uninvited but too at ease to make it feel like trespass. I wonder if he always moves through life like this. A guest star who’s read the script but prefers to improvise.
He studies me for a beat, his gaze not quite clinical but sharply observant. “So,” he says, “was Mrs. Wilcox typical of your clientele?”
I take a sip of my coffee. Wow, he made it exactly how I like it. “There’s no ‘typical’ in divorce law. Every case is its own special disaster.”
“But you enjoy it.” He’s stating a fact, not posing a question.
“I like winning,” I clarify. “I like ensuring that people like Tamara don’t end up with nothing after dedicating years to a marriage.” My mood immediately sours when my phone vibrates and it’s William.
“Problem?” Aaron asks, noticing my expression.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I turn the phone face down on my desk. “Just William being William.”
“Has he apologized for what he said in the conference room?”
“Of course not. Men like William don’t apologize; they just pretend it never happened.” I take another sip.
