I take her hand. Sit on the edge of the bed.
"We'll handle it. Call the doctor when they open at eight. Don't worry." I rub her arm and let my backpack slip off my shoulder with a deliberate thud. "I have a surprise for you."
Her face does the thing, the thing it hasn't done enough lately, lights up when I pull out the Boston cream.
"Ay, mijo.My favorite. You remembered!"
I go to the kitchen, come back with two coffees. She's already finished the donut. I pull out the second one and hold it out.
She shakes her head.
"Please, Ma." I keep my voice easy, casual. "I already ate mine at the shop. Wanted them fresh. These two were always for you."
It's a lie. She probably knows it's a lie. But she looks at me for a long moment, something quiet moving across her face, and then she takes it.
We sit together for another fifteen minutes, coffee going warm between our hands, plans for the day, her first pill swallowed with a slow sip. I don't look at the clock once.
CHAPTER 2
HARVEE
My morning coffee isn't cutting it. The bitterness is dulled, as if even it knows how brutally early this is. The firm already thrums with preparations for what everyone whispers is the trial of the century, and with every passing minute, the anxiety wraps a little tighter around my chest.
This is my first real job out of college. Legal assistant to Clark Turner, a role that feels less like the culmination of four years of grinding and more like a glorified receptionist position where I fetch coffee and field calls. But hey. It's a paycheck.
Honestly, I'm just grateful to have escaped Tennessee. One electric spring break trip to Miami sophomore year sealed it for me. I know how cliché that sounds, but the city's culture, its flavors, its thick embracing humidity against my skin — it's a world away from the bland familiarity I grew up swallowing. The very thought of another winter back home sends a shiver of relief through me. I am never going back.
"Miss Holland!"
The voice slices from behind, sharp as a summons. I'm hunched over the ancient copy machine, its relentless whine swallowing everything else while I wait for the stack to finish spitting out pages for his review.
I flinch. Spine stiffens.
"Yes, Mr. Turner?"
"I've been trying to get your attention for a full two minutes." His gaze drags over me from head to toe, lingering on my chest the way it always does, long enough to feel like fingers pressing through the fabric of my blouse. "I've been standing here."
"I'm sorry, sir. The machine is loud. I'm waiting for these to finish so I can have them on your desk for review."
I bite the inside of my cheek. Trap the eye-roll. My palms itch.
"That's what I like to hear." His mouth curves into something that doesn't belong on a person's face. "And it isn't the only thing I'd love to have spread across my desk in the near future."
A wink. Then he's gone.
I stand there under the fluorescent buzz while the copier wheezes through its last pages, his words hanging in the air like something I can't wave away. Bile climbs sharp and acrid in my throat. I swallow it back, fingers pressing flat against the warm paper just to feel something solid.
This is constant. The comments, the looks, the suggestions that stop just short of anything actionable. He's too slippery for policy to catch, and what would be the point anyway? He owns the firm. Complaints here don't go anywhere except his own shredder.
He makes me field every call personally, insists on my voice specifically, because my "sexy Southern drawl" apparently mesmerizes callers into compliance. He's remarked on my hips, my legs, the way my frame fills out whatever I'm wearing. I've abandoned dresses entirely. Tailored pantsuits now, high necklines, every outfit a negotiation between professional and armored. It doesn't matter. Today's blouse clings just enough in the humidity and I watched his eyes pause, linger, confirm that no amount of fabric is ever going to be the point.
I shake it off the way I always do and gather the warm stack of pages from the tray.
Turner should be tied up in a meeting for the next hour, which means I can breathe. I cross the floor to his office, flip through the copies out of habit. Legal documents from the pharmaceutical company we're representing in Thursday's trial, sent over for review. I clock the name and feel my jaw tighten. These companies always find the loopholes. Finding them is exactly what we're paid for.
Two more days until trial. I need this job. I need the experience if I'm ever going to get back to law school, and I will get back, sooner rather than later. In the meantime, this still beats Tennessee.
Turner mentioned this morning that he wants me in the courtroom for the trial. Said the jury responds better when they see a younger woman at the defense table. My stomach turned at that too, but I filed it away with everything else.
