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Excitedly grabbing my purse and keys, I head to the office one last time. I ignore the dent in my car and jump in the driver’s side. On my way, I rehearse my speech. I also practice all my sassy comebacks. You never know what you’ll need.

When I arrive, I strut into the small building. I pass by the sign that reads ‘Warner Trial Group’. The firm is small, with less than twenty attorneys and it’s about to get smaller. When I walk in, the door slams shut behind me, the sound ricocheting off the walls. The receptionist, Jenny, looks up from the computer with a sneer. Despite realizing it's me, her annoyance doesn't falter. Her blonde hair is tied tightly into a bun, not a single hair out of place; uptight, just like her.

“It’s seven in the morning. Can you try not being so incredibly loud?” she whines, probably not wanting to be here either.

“Can you try not being a bitch, Jenny?” I retort, without breaking my stride. I hear her gasp as I walk past her and grin to myself. I’ve been wanting to say that since the first day I got here.

Everyone at the office has always faked being nice to me. They knew what happened at the State Attorney’s office.

Everyone in the state knew.

This office is cramped and not a lot of us work here. It’s impossible not to hear other people’s conversations. When I first joined this firm, the whispers and stares I would get every day bothered me so much that I locked myself away in my personal office all the time.

After the first year, the whispers died down, but I could never connect with anyone here. I only remained here because no one else would hire me. There are just too many lawyers for such a small community, and opportunities are limited. I contemplated moving out of the state, but I am only barred here. I would have to take another exam to be able to practice elsewhere and I refuse to go through another standardized test.

Not in this lifetime, at least.

I approach the conference room and push the door open. The room is occupied by a large, wooden, oval table with two men sitting by it, laughing at whatever Craig just said. They look up at the sound of my arrival.

The potential client is an older gentleman with graying hair, in a well-tailored suit. His watch looks like it cost more than my car.

I turn to look at my dick of a boss. He resembles what people conjure in their minds when they think of a lawyer. Greedy, distrustful, and a know-it-all who knows nothing.

“Joyce, thank you for finally joining us. I know you have a busy day ahead of you with our other client,” my boss says, gesturing to a seat. I don’t move from the entrance. He begins introducing the client. “This is—"

“I don’t care who he is and what shit he did,” I reply, cutting him off.

Oh, how he hates when someone cuts him off. Despite this, he does it all the time. His eyebrows jump up to his nonexistent hairline and his face turns a vibrant red. Before he has his usual meltdown, I retrieve my letter of resignation that I wrote in my car on a McDonald’s napkin on my way here. I walk to the oval conference table and slam it in front of him.

He picks it up and reads it aloud. “Mr. Fuckface, I quit. Don’t argue with me. Argue with your momma for creating such a vile, money-grubbing man.”

Rising from his chair, Craig throws the napkin at me. We all watch as it flutters a short distance and lands gently on the table in front of him.

How embarrassing for him.

“Today will be my final day. I will be going to court to finish off Mr. Reynold’s case. But I no longer work for you,” I inform him. I would stop representing Mr. Reynold’s right now, but it would require me to get permission from the judge. She is unlikely to grant it since we are in the middle of trial and I do not have a sufficient reason as to why I can’t represent him.

Well, besides the fact that I think he is the scum of the earth.

He stabs a finger towards me. “I took you in when nobody else would!” he yells.

“That does not mean I have to tolerate your blatant disregard for me. You know what happened to me. Everyone knows! I have told you plenty of times that I wanted to stick to white collar crimes.” I throw my hands up. “I mean shit. I even told you I would take over the Wills and Estate department when the other attorney retired. But you ignored me and kept assigning me violent people who—ten times out of ten—did the fucking crime they are being accused of.”

“It’s what you were amazing at! I was nurturing your talents, trying to help you.”

I roll my eyes. “Did you hear a word I just said? I didn’t want to do it!”

The client stands, clearly looking uncomfortable. “I will just leave—”

My boss slams his fist on the table, yelling, “You ungrateful bitch. You are not quitting!”

“Oh, really?” I tilt my head and grin. “Well, watch as I strut right the fuck out of here.”

He wiggles a finger at me, the vein in his neck still throbbing as if it will burst. “You’ll be back, Joyce Parker. Nowhere else will hire you, and when you do return, you’ll have to beg me,” he seethes. “On your knees.”

I chuckle humorlessly as I turn and walk out of the conference room, not bothering to entertain him further. I can hear his shoes pound against the wood floor in anger as he follows me.

“You’ll be back!” he yells again. I would rather lick the ground that someone just pissed on than come back here. That is how much I hate being a lawyer, especially for him.