Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

1. Serena

Serena

P erfect.

I lean back in my executive chair—soft Italian leather—and give myself exactly three seconds to admire the final campaign mock-ups spread across my desk. Eighteen months of development, countless revisions, and more all-nighters than my concealer can hide, all leading to this moment.

‘Beauty at the Cellular Level’ gleams in elegant silver script across deep purple packaging. Our revolutionary skincare line that actually delivers on its promises. The clinical trials alone took a year, but the results? Chef's kiss.

My phone buzzes. A text from Maya:

Maya:

Final files uploaded to the secure server. This is going to change everything!

I smile, typing back:

Me:

We did it. YOUR concept for the cellular visualization was genius.

Three dots appear immediately.

Maya:

You mean that? Really?

Me:

Every word. Couldn't have done this without you.

Maya Bolton might be my protégé, but honestly? Sometimes I think she's hungrier for success than I ever was. Which is saying something, considering I once slept in this office for a week straight during a product launch.

I stand, smoothing down my structured Armani blazer.

The La Perla shapewear—a splurge I'd justified as professional armor—whispers against silk, a constant reminder of the image I maintain.

Nobody needs to know about the anxiety that lives under my skin, or the way I triple-check every outfit to make sure nothing shows that shouldn't.

The executive floor of Luminous Cosmetics hums with pre-launch energy.

Through my glass office walls, I watch my team putting final touches on tomorrow's presentation.

Each floor generates more than most people see in a lifetime, every surface gleaming with the kind of money that whispers rather than shouts.

We're keeping the campaign under wraps until the official reveal in two weeks but tomorrow's board meeting will be our victory lap.

"Serena!" James Washington, my senior designer, pokes his head through my door. "You need to see the final video edit. It's..." He makes an explosion gesture with his hands. "Transcendent."

"Cue it up in the conference room," I tell him. "I'll grab coffee and meet you there."

He salutes and disappears. I love my team. Love how they've trusted me through this intense process, even when I pushed them to redo things for the dozenth time. They deserve this win. We all do.

My phone buzzes again. This time it's Layla:

Layla:

Brunch? Bloom & Brew at 11?

me:

Can't. Board presentation. But Sunday?

Layla:

It's a date! Bennett says hi.

I roll my eyes but smile. Twelve months ago, I would have gagged at how sickeningly happy those two are.

Back then, all I could see was my parents' version of love—Dad expecting Mom to rearrange her whole existence around his career, his needs.

"When you love someone completely, it doesn’t matter what you want," she'd tell me, usually after canceling another plan, quitting another job, moving us again for his career.

By the time I was eighteen, there was nothing left of the woman she used to be.

Just Dad's shadow, perfectly molded to fit his life.

In turn, I was molded to fit too. It was.

..suffocating. And I swore I'd never go down that road.

Love was a liability I couldn't afford. My career, the only partner that never asked me to shrink myself.

But now? After watching the way Bennett moved heaven and earth to support Layla's career, after seeing how well they complement each other, and how damn happy they are, newly engaged and planning their future together…

Well, it gives me hope that maybe someday I'll find someone like that.

Someone who accepts all my pieces—the perfect and the broken.

Someone who loves me without consuming me.

Not that I'm actively looking. I've been very deliberately NOT looking since the James Foundation Gala six months ago. Since Caleb Kingsley and his devastating smile and his ability to make legal theory and snarky comments sound like foreplay.

Nope. Not thinking about him. Or the way he held me on that dance floor like I was the only woman in the room.

Or how we talked and laughed until the venue staff literally had to ask us to leave at 2 AM.

Or the way his thumb traced circles on my lower back through the silk of my dress.

Or that I can still feel it sometimes when I close my eyes.

My Cinderella moment, complete with designer dress and a prince who wanted more from me.

And like an idiot, in that champagne-hazed, magical moment, I believed.

Then I got home. Googled him. Saw photo after photo of him with women who look like they stepped off runways and into his arms. Supermodels. Heiresses. Women whose bodies don't require industrial-strength shapewear to look presentable in designer dresses.

He texted the next day. And the next. Dinner invitations that sounded like legal negotiations, charming, persistent, perfect.

I said no. Then no again. Then yes after a moment of weakness.

That was followed by hours of panic, until I stopped responding altogether because I'm apparently a coward who can't handle the idea of him seeing me in harsh daylight instead of dim gala lighting.

I push the memory down, locking it away in the same mental vault where I keep my insecurities. He was a fantasy, a fleeting moment of what-if. This campaign, this launch. This is what’s real.

The buttery scent of coffee from the high-tech espresso machine down the hall pulls me forward. I can already taste the victory—a perfectly pulled double shot, rich and dark.

As I round the corner into the communal lounge, my stride falters.

On the massive eighty-inch screen usually displaying our stock ticker and internal announcements, a commercial is playing.

Not ours. A woman with ethereal skin swirls a jar of iridescent cream.

The tagline appears in a flowing, silver script I know intimately.

Radiance Beauty presents... Beauty at the Cellular Level.

My blood runs cold. It’s our campaign. Every detail. Our tagline. Our concept. Two weeks early. And it’s not ours anymore.

“Oh my god.”

My phone explodes.

Not literally, but it might as well have. Texts, calls, notifications, all hitting at once. My heart hammers as I grab it.

Richard Sterling - CEO:

EMERGENCY MEETING NOW

Patricia Wong - HR:

Please come to the boardroom immediately

"What's wrong?" Maya asks appearing at my side, but I'm already pulling up my news alerts.

And there it is. The headline that makes my blood turn to ice:

RADIANCE BEAUTY LAUNCHES REVOLUTIONARY CELLULAR SKINCARE LINE: ‘BEAUTY AT THE CELLULAR LEVEL’

My hands shake as I click the link. Their campaign fills my screen. Our tagline. Our color scheme. Our concept. Even the cellular visualization that Maya designed.

Everything. They stole everything.

"No," I whisper. Then louder: "No, no, no, this isn't possible."

"Serena?" Maya reaches for me, but I'm already moving, phone clutched in my trembling hand.

"Meeting," I manage. "Board room. Now."

I don't remember the walk to the elevator. Don't remember the ride up to the top floor. All I can see is our campaign—our baby, our future—splashed across Radiance's social media. Eighteen months of work, launched two weeks before our big reveal.

The boardroom doors feel heavier than usual. Inside, half the board has already assembled. Richard Sterling stands at the head of the table, his usually kind face carved from stone.

"Serena," he says, and something in his tone makes my stomach drop further. "We need to talk about your future here."

Behind him, on the presentation screen, is an email. From Radiance's CEO, Victoria Chase. To me. Dated two weeks ago.

The subject line: ‘Final Offer - Director of Marketing Position’

An offer I never responded to. An offer worth triple my current salary.

An offer that makes me look guilty as hell.

I sink into the nearest chair, my perfect armor suddenly feeling like tissue paper.

This can't be happening.