CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ruben
“Ruben, I want you to take care of this case,” Joe Langley, one of the founding partners who is the president of the West front of the company, exclaims from the far end of the long conference table.
It’s Monday, and we’re knee-deep in our quarterly meeting. There is the usual parade of charts, summaries, and how the cases we deal with are moving in court. The junior associates are behind us, taking notes furiously. But Joe’s voice cuts through the monotony like a siren.
“Pack those bags. You’re heading to Buenos Aires to meet with the client.”
For a moment, I stare, unsure if I heard him right. “Argentina?” The words tumble out before I can stop them. Of course, the first thing out of my mouth has to sound like a goddamn Jeopardy answer.
“That’s the only Buenos Aires I know,” Joe replies, his grin wide and smug as he leans back in his chair.
I glance around the table. Some of my colleagues look impressed. Others, like Aiden, look distinctly unhappy. Joe doesn’t seem to notice or care about the ripple he’s caused, and he barrels on.
“You’re the only one here fluent in Spanish,” he continues, like that alone makes me the obvious choice. My mother would be so proud. Just the thought of her makes my chest ache a little, but I don’t dwell on it. Not here.
Joe leans forward, his tone shifting to something more serious. “And this will be a good trial for you. You know, that senior partnership is on the line.”
A smile tugs at my lips despite myself. The words hang in the air, tantalizing and heavy. Senior partnership. That’s the goal. The finish line.
I glance at Aiden, whose jaw is clenched so tight it looks like it might shatter. Good. He’s been gunning for the same spot, but this? This is a clear win for me.
“My bags are packed and ready to go,” I say, keeping my voice light but firm, injecting just enough enthusiasm to make it clear I’m all in. “When do you want me to head down there?”
“Fabrizio Bacci, our client, is in Madrid now. He’ll be back in two weeks,” Joe explains. Like clockwork, Kendra, his assistant, hands me a thick binder. I’m sure the digital copy is already in the shared cloud folder.
I flip it open briefly, skimming the opening summary. It’s a sprawling case—contracts, tax loopholes, international property and insurance disputes. My kind of challenge.
“This is a big one, Ruben,” Joe says, his voice lowering slightly as though imparting some sacred truth. “Millions on the line. You know what that means…”
Oh, yes. I know exactly what it means. A fat bonus. A golden ticket to the partner seat. A glowing résumé bullet point, the kind people envy.
I nod, hiding the satisfaction bubbling up inside me. “Understood. I’ll dedicate all my time to this.”
Pleased, Joe claps his hands together, signaling the end of the discussion. People start filing out of the room, conversations buzzing.
I’m almost to the door when I hear my name.
“Posada.”
I turn to see Aiden standing near the window, his arms crossed, his expression sour. His voice carries that familiar edge—part warning, part threat.
“Whatever Langley said…” He pauses, his eyes narrowing.
I cut him off before he can finish. “There’s nothing to worry about, Aiden. You know I always finish what I start.”
His gaze hardens, and for a second, I think he’s going to push harder. But instead, he stands and takes a step closer, lowering his voice so only I can hear.
“Just don’t change your ways,” he says, his tone biting.
I let the words linger for a moment, then smirk. “I wouldn’t change who I am.”
I leave him standing there.
Back at my desk, I spread the folder’s contents across the polished wood surface of my desktop. Contracts, emails and texts, financial statements are all there, a web of details waiting to be unraveled. I should be ready to bark orders to the two juniors working under my wing, but as I flip through the pages, my thoughts start wandering.
This isn’t just about Buenos Aires. It’s about the theater. Lennon.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the thick folder but not really seeing it anymore. Her face flashes in my mind—the way the whisky of her eyes sparks with fire when she’s talking about saving that old building. The way her lips curve, soft but determined, when she tries to convince me—or maybe herself—that she’s not afraid of losing it.
She’s complicated. A mystery I can’t solve with clever arguments or contracts.
I should be focused on the partnership and on what this case means for my future. But every time I think about her, that focus blurs.
She’s brave. Fierce. Stubborn as hell.
And then there’s the way she looks at me sometimes, like she sees something I don’t.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog. This isn’t who I am. I don’t get tangled up like this. I don’t let people get under my skin.
But Lennon? She’s already under my skin and then some.
The thought of leaving for Buenos Aires in two weeks feels… off. It feels like I’m walking away from something unfinished.
But maybe that’s the point. Maybe the space will help me get my head on straight.
Or maybe it’ll just make me miss her more.
? ? ?
The theater looms ahead of me, its facade catching the last rays of the setting sun. Stepping closer, my shoes echo faintly against the cracked sidewalk. The marquee is weathered. Its bold letters are faded but still quite dignified. I tilt my head back, and I take in the arched windows with their delicate iron frames. Each detail whispers of the stories this place has witnessed—premieres, hushed romances, roaring applause. The kind of history you can’t manufacture. The sort of history that makes San Francisco the place it is. A city with a bold personality. A place to be.
I exhale slowly, trying to push aside the ache that’s been building in my chest. The cost of restoring something like this isn’t just financial. It’s personal.
I picture the interior as it was. Chandeliers gleaming, floors polished to a mirror shine, rows of plush seats ready to cradle dreamers. Suddenly, I realize that I want that world to exist again.
A breeze kicks up. I adjust my tie and glance at the peeling paint on the ticket booth wood frame. It shouldn’t matter so much, but it does. I shake my head and walk to the wooden doors, and they creak as I push them open. Inside, the dim light feels heavy, shadows clinging to the corners. Mike and Jennifer are at the far end, bent over paperwork spread out on the counter. Their heads snap up when they hear me.
“You again,” Mike says, leaning back in his chair with a frown. His arms cross over his chest like he’s preparing to shield himself for another fight. “We weren’t expecting this visit today.”
“What is it this time?” Mrs. Olson warns her husband with a glance before smoothing her features into a polite but cautious expression.
I smile, keeping it light and casual. “Just thought I’d drop by.”
“Lately, you’ve been dropping by a lot,” Mr. Olson cuts in. “You’re here more than you should be. What are you looking for?”
“Relax. I’m not here to twist anyone’s arm.” I hold up my hands in mock surrender.
“We told you we’d think about the offer. What else do you have to say?” he mutters, narrowing his eyes.
Jennifer shifts uncomfortably, her gaze flicking between Mike and me. I take a step closer.
“I’m not here for business,” I say, calm but firm. “This is a personal matter.”
The words hang in the air with meaning I don’t intend to explain. Mike stiffens, his frown deepening, but Jennifer surprises me. Her lips curve into a knowing smile that hints at secrets she’s pieced together.
“Tell me more,” she says, her tone almost teasing. She leans on the counter, folding her arms and giving me a pointed look. “And something tells me you will need luck with that.”
Mike’s gaze snaps to her, his confusion evident. “What?”
Jennifer shakes her head, her smile widening as if she’s already moved three steps ahead in this conversation.
Later, as I step back into the rainy evening, I glance up at the theater’s facade one last time. The plan I made has shifted, making room for something new, something neither of us expected.
Whatever comes next, I’m ready for it.