Page 127 of At His Beck & Call

“Oliver!”

I look up to find Tom Burton standing in the doorway, frowning at me. It’s clearly not the first time he’s said my name.

I rise, smooth down my tie, and walk in.

The room is one I’ve only been into a few times over the years. It’s used almost exclusively by the senior partners and the board. It has a high ceiling, two walls of large glass windows, and stunning views of the city.

There are seven intimidating men sitting around the table.

I clench my jaw at the lack of diversity. They’re all white men, staring at me moodily as if they would rather be anywhere else right now.

Is it me, or is it cold in here?

I take a seat, watching Tom do the same on the other side of me. I’ve known all of these men for over a decade. None of them is younger than fifty, and they watch me coldly as I settle into my seat.

“Thank you for coming in,” Tom says, pulling a sheet of paper toward him and looking up at me with a dark stare.

Something is off in here.

“I’ll get right to it, Oliver,” Tom begins, as three of those around him shift forward in their seats. “The equity partner decision has been made, and we have chosen Warren Sutcliffe.”

My spine straightens as I glance along the table, focusing on each man individually. Only two of them meet my gaze.

I don’t know why I expected anything different than this.

Sutcliffe isn’t the right choice, and it’s almost as if they all know that, but they’ve done it anyway.

I have brought in dozens of high-paying clients to this firm over the years. Even before I made partner, I was outperforming every other senior associate. My mentorship program has developed some of the best lawyers we have, and, unlike Sutcliffe, I retain my staff for years. His churn rate is the highest in the firm.

I’m not as personable as him, sure. I don’t play golf; I don’t circulate at parties or get drunk and fall in swimming pools, something Sutcliffe has done more than once. But I’m a damned good lawyer.

“I see,” I say without inflection.

There is a long pause, and the large, ornate clock on the wall ticks loudly as one of the men at the end of the table picks up his phone as if he’s bored.

Unsure what else there is to discuss, I move back in my chair as if to leave, wondering if that’s what they’re waiting for, but then Tom raises a hand.

“You would have been our first choice, Oliver. I hope you realize that. But we have to make this decision with the best interests of the firm in mind, and some of your conduct lately has been circumspect, to say the least.”

I stare at him, genuinely astounded by his choice of words.My conduct? What does he know?

“Could you explain?” I ask, and someone scoffs. I’m not sure which one of the crusty old men it is.

“You took on a pro bono case recently, did you not?” Tom asks, as one of the men hands him a thick black folder. When he opens it, I can see an email inside that’s several paragraphs long. I strain to see who sent it, but the text is too small.

“I did,” I concede.

“Did you think that was a wise decision? To prioritize something that had little value to the firm and at the detriment of the Reynolds case?”

“Detriment?” I ask incredulously. “I hardly think it had an impact.”

“Ah. Well, I’m glad you’re able to clarify things for me,” Tom says sharply.

“It’s not unusual for partners to take on pro bono work. If anything, it gives the firm a better reputation. I would’ve thought it would be a benefit, and it took up very little of my time.”

“I imagine it benefited Melissa Davenport as well. She recently began working with you as your EA, did she not?”

“She did,” I reply.