The office air is thick with the scent of stale coffee, a familiarity that clings to me as I pack away the last file. The sun has already dipped behind the city skyline, leaving only a bruise-colored ribbon of light through the frosted glass. I double-check the lock on my file drawer—old habit but a necessary one.
Just as I place the last folder into my bag, my phone vibrates then goes silent. I ignore it. Tonight, everything feels brittle, as though any careless movement might shatter the fragile routine I've built to contain my pregnancy; that, and all the oversized sweaters I own.
I know who it is. It’s Evgeny, probably telling me Matvei is wondering where I am and to let me know where he's parked, ready to take me to the strange new place I've been calling home lately.
Here among the filing cabinets and dusty window shades, old light fixtures and beat-up desks, work is the only spot I feel some normalcy.
Everyone else has left for the day except for my boss, his hand tangled in his hair as he stares at the pile of paper in front of him. I know he'll be here for several more hours after I leave. He waves without looking up as I peek my head in and say good night.
The front door opens just as I'm texting Evgeny that I'm on my way.
"We're closed for the day," I say, without glancing up.
"Sonya, can you help me?"
The voice makes me stop short, and I nearly drop the phone when I come face-to-face with Genevieve Mancini. She's dressed in a puffer vest, leggings, and boots that probably cost what I make in a month. Her hair is pulled back into a messy bun and her lipstick is slightly smudged, as if she's been worrying at her lips. My stomach tenses and all my instincts bristle. I'm not in the mood for theatrics.
"Sonya," she says, her voice wavering with what sounds like vulnerability. She straightens and pushes her shoulders back, but her eyes dart away. "Can I talk to you? Please?"
I hesitate, caught between the professional composure I'm supposed to maintain and a very private loathing for her. Never mind what Matvei would do if he knew Genevieve was here.
She steps closer, clutching her purse as though it might anchor her. "I—God, this is embarrassing." She laughs nervously. "I owe you an apology. Actually, I owe you a few. I know I haven't been nice. Or even tolerable, really."
I wait, letting the silence stretch. Genevieve fiddles with a diamond tennis bracelet, the stones catching the harsh fluorescent light.
"I know what Samson did," she says suddenly, the words tumbling out. "How he asked you to be his mistress. Like you’re some kind of trophy or revenge or whatever twisted thing he's thinking." Her voice shudders, and she flashes me a desperate smile, the kind asking for forgiveness before the truth is even laid bare.
Anger flares in my chest. I don't want to relive that conversation, where Samson made his offer sound like it was a favor to me and expected me to be grateful. As though he hadn't made it entirely clear I was of no use to him anymore.
Genevieve was part of the problem. She knew about me, knew I was engaged to Samson yet still started planning her own wedding before I was even kicked to the curb.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask, my tone neutral. If she wants to confess, let her. I'm not going to make it easier.
She glances over her shoulder as if checking to make sure no one is listening. "Because I want out," she whispers. "I want a divorce. I want to be free of Samson, of all of it. And I need your help."
She says “help” like it's a magic word, and I wonder if she thinks lawyers just wave wands and solve things. I do see the desperation—her nails bitten to the quick instead of perfectly painted, the tremor in her voice, the way she leans close and speaks quietly. I want to refuse, to tell her I'm not a miracle worker, that her problems are bigger than I can help her solve.
But I can't.
I dislike this woman so much that being close to her makes me feel nauseous. But for all her drama, privilege, and mean-girl energy, Genevieve doesn't deserve what Samson is doing to her. I know what it's like and that's why I hesitate. Not because I want to be her friend, but because I can't watch another woman fall prey to Samson's games.
"Divorce is ugly," I tell her. "Especially with families like yours. Are you sure you want to fight this battle?"
She nods as tears well in her eyes. "I know what he is now. I know what he's capable of. I don't want to end up like my mother. Or worse."
Her words settle like a stone in my chest. I think about my own mother and the life that led to her death. I think about the cases I've worked—the bruises that never fully fade, the silence women carry when no one is willing to listen. I swallow hard, pushing down the ache that rises when I remember what I'm hiding from everyone.
Genevieve watches me, her expression desperate and hopeful. I see beneath the makeup and drama to the sharp edges of fear that mirror my own. A part of me wants to turn my back and tell her to get lost. However, another part, the one built in courtrooms and on late-night crisis calls, knows I won't.
"Fine," I concede. "I'll help you. But we do this my way. And it won't be easy."
She nods eagerly, relief flooding her features. "Anything. Please. I just want it over."
I pull out my phone and open my notes app, the lawyer in me already building strategies. "We need to talk. Tomorrow. My office, noon. No drama, no entourage. Just you, and the truth."
She agrees and promises she'll come alone, thanking me with too many words, her hands fluttering. I let her ramble, half-listening, half-tallying risks.
Samson will not take this quietly. His pride is a weapon, and Genevieve is about to become collateral. But I know how to fight men like him. I know how to make the system bleed for the right cause, and I really, really want to take Samson down.
