3. Serena
Serena
C all me chicken shit if you need to, but I spent all of last night on my laptop, frantically searching for any other option besides Caleb Kingsley.
Eleven calls to different law firms. Three said, "we don't handle this kind of thing.
" Four gave the, "conflict of interest with existing clients," line. Two, who actually listened to my story, told me to agree to whatever settlement Luminous offers because fighting would be career suicide. The rest simply said they weren’t taking on new clients.
But there was one who added, "Have you tried Caleb Kingsley?
He's really the only one in Chicago who could win this. "
Even the legal universe is conspiring against me.
Now I'm standing outside the gleaming tower that houses the law offices of Whitman Kingsley & Peck , wearing my sharpest black power suit and trying not to throw up on my Jimmy Choos.
The building lobby is all marble and intimidation. My heels click too loudly as I cross to the security desk.
"Serena Morgan for Caleb Kingsley. Eight AM appointment."
The guard checks his list, hands me a visitor badge. "Thirty-second floor. The receptionist will direct you."
The elevator ride feels endless. I check my reflection in the mirrored walls—lipstick perfect, black hair sleek, armor fully in place. No one would guess I spent half the night crying and the other half practicing what I'd say to him.
Hi Caleb. I know I ghosted you, but could you save my career?
Caleb, wonderful to see you. About that whole disappearing thing...
I'm sorry I'm a coward who couldn't handle the idea of you getting to know the real me.
The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal a reception area that whispers seductively about success. Floor-to-ceiling windows, leather and chrome furniture, crystal vases filled with fresh orchids that probably get replaced daily.
"Serena Morgan for Mr. Kingsley," I tell the impossibly polished receptionist.
"Of course, Ms. Morgan. He's expecting you. Last office at the end of the hall."
Each step down that hallway takes effort. My hands are shaking. I clutch my bag tighter, the folder of evidence inside crinkling.
His door is open.
I knock anyway.
"Come in."
That voice. Six months, and his voice still makes my stomach flip.
Caleb's office is exactly what I expected. It’s massive, intimidating, with a view that probably adds zeros to his hourly rate.
And there he is, behind an imposing mahogany desk, looking like he stepped out of a GQ spread.
Charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie yet because it's early.
His dark blond hair is perfectly styled, those devastating cheekbones even sharper than I remember.
His dark eyes lift from whatever document he's reviewing and lock with mine.
Time stops.
Six months disappear.
I'm back at the gala, in his arms, believing in fairy tales.
"Serena." His expression shifts to professional neutrality, and I remember why I'm here.
"Hi." I hover in the doorway like an idiot. "I'm sorry. I really should have called myself."
"Sit." He gestures to one of the leather chairs across from his desk. Not warm, but not cold either.
I perch on the edge of the chair, clutching my purse like a lifeline.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we aren’t saying.
My nerves swirl about in my gut, and as much as I want to slip back into the snarky banter we shared before, I know it’s not the time.
This isn’t the gala. It isn’t even a rooftop bar.
This is an execution, and he's my only hope for a pardon.
"Thanks for seeing me so quickly.”
“Of course.”
“I was surprised, actually. I thought you might have had me banned from the building." I wince as soon as the words are out. That’s not keeping this professional, Serena!
His eyebrows draw together slightly. "Why would I do that?"
"Because I..." I force myself to meet his eyes. "Because I ghosted you.”
“Ghosted? Is that what the kids are calling being stood up these days?”
The words feel like stones in my gut. My face flames hot. "I?—"
"Georgio’s, wasn't it?" His voice is light, almost amused. "Table by the window. Eight o'clock."
"Caleb, I'm so sorry?—"
"Don’t be." He waves a hand dismissively. "When you didn't show, I just called a friend. We had an excellent meal. The osso buco was particularly good that night." He picks up a pen, twirling it between his fingers. "Their wine list is impressive. You missed out."
"Sounds like I did," I say, forcing my voice steady.
Of course he had a backup plan. A man like Caleb Kingsley always has a backup plan, probably on speed dial and wearing couture.
The thought is a sharp, unexpected jab. This isn't the picture of Caleb Layla and Bennett were painting last night.
But then again, why would I have expected anything else?
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I force myself to switch gears.
"We should probably get to why I'm here.
" I place my purse on the floor and pull the thick folder from my bag, setting it on the polished surface of his desk. It makes a solid, definitive thud. “That’s the evidence they have against me.”
His eyes linger on the folder, then flick back to my face, cool and professional. He pulls the folder toward him, the slide of cardboard against polished mahogany echoing in the quiet room.
“Bennett gave me the broad strokes,” he says, his voice clipped and devoid of any warmth. He opens it, his gaze immediately scanning the documents inside—the suspension letter, the printouts of the Radiance campaign, the damning email from Victoria Chase. I hold my breath.
“Intellectual property theft. This says you have five days before a formal interview.”
“Less now,” I point out, voice tight. “It’s Friday morning.”
"Time is against us then. Walk me through your side of things, Serena." He clicks his pen, as if the last five minutes—or six months—never happened.
So, I push those feelings aside too and lay out the whole ugly story. He takes notes, occasionally asking clarifying questions, treating me like any other potential client.
"The other lawyers I spoke to said I should negotiate a settlement," I finish. "Take a plea deal if they press charges and it goes to trial."
His pen stops moving. “What other lawyers?”
“I…just a few firms around the city.” My voice falters. Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.
His gaze sharpens. “So, I’m your last choice?”
“No.” The word rushes out too quickly. “Of course not. I just… I thought it might be awkward. Given our history.”
“It isn’t.” He taps his pen on the folder. "These access logs," his focus moves to the papers in front of him, "they pinpoint the breach to your terminal, but do they have location data? Was the access remote or from inside the building?"
"They don't specify," I say, forcing myself to focus on the facts instead of his hands, the way the pen rests against his knuckles. "But the timestamps match when my badge was used to enter the building after hours."
"After hours?" He makes a note. "How often do you work late?"
"Often. But I don’t come and go like this is showing, and most nights I’m home by seven."
"Can anyone verify that?"
"No. I live alone." The words hang heavy between us. "But my UberEats account will show my orders. I get a lot of takeout."
He nods, still writing. "And the emails from Victoria Chase?"
"I reported the first two to HR, like I’m required to. David—your brother—advised me to document but not engage."
"Smart. But you stopped reporting them."
"They became white noise. I'd delete them without reading." I lean forward. "Caleb, I never responded to her. Not once. You can check my sent folder, my phone, everything."
"I believe you."
The simple statement makes my throat tight. "You do?"
He sets down his pen and finally looks at me directly. "Yes. But what I believe doesn't matter. What matters is what we can prove."
"So you'll take the case?"
"I'll take it." He leans back in his chair. "But we need to establish ground rules."
Here it comes. The punishment for ghosting him.
"First, you do exactly what I say, when I say it. No going rogue, no trying to investigate on your own, no contact with anyone from Luminous unless I'm present."
"OK."
"Second, full transparency. I need to know everything. Every interaction with Radiance, every person who had access to your passwords, every enemy you might have made at Luminous."
"I don't have enemies."
His lips twitch slightly. "Everyone has enemies in corporate America."
"Fine. Yes. I can do that."
"Third," he pauses, and something shifts in his expression, “Whatever happened between us before. It won’t affect the effort I put into this case."
I’m not sure if I’m upset or relieved by that, so I just nod. "Of course."
"Good." He stands, examining the paperwork again. "We'll need to prepare. Can you come back tomorrow morning? Say nine?"
"Yes. Of course.
He walks around the desk, and suddenly he's closer. Too close. He stops, his head tilting slightly.
"Why do you smell like snickerdoodles?"
Heat floods my face. "I was stress baking last night."
"Snickerdoodles?"
"Three batches." I admit. "Plus chocolate chip and some lemon bars."
Something in his expression softens for just a moment. "You still do that? Bake when you're anxious?"
He remembers. From our conversations at the gala, from the late-night texts we exchanged. He remembers.
"Yeah," I whisper. "I do."
He clears his throat, stepping back. "Bring any documentation you have with you tomorrow. Everything you have that can prove your movements."
"I will."
"And Serena? Wear something softer for the meeting. That suit says 'hostile takeover,' not 'wrongfully accused employee.'"
I look down at my power suit. "This is my best suit."
"Save it for when we go on the offensive." His eyes travel over me in a way that's not quite professional. "On Friday, you’ll need to look sympathetic. Vulnerable."
My stomach clenches. Vulnerable. Like I was at sixteen, standing on Mom's bathroom scale while she frowned at the number.
"Designers don't make clothes for girls your size," she'd remind me, scheduling another session with the personal trainer during Dad's business dinners so no one would have to see me.
"We need you down at least twenty pounds.
You want to be able to stand next to your father without embarrassing him, don't you?
" By the time I finally hit her target weight, I'd learned that vulnerability meant giving people ammunition to hurt you.
"I don't do vulnerable well."
"I remember." His voice is softer than I expect. "But the panel needs to see you as human, not perfect."
Perfect. If only he knew how many years of controlled eating and compulsive exercise it took to even approximate Mom's definition of acceptable. How I still hear her voice every time I look in a mirror: "Almost there, sweetheart. Just a few more pounds and you'll be perfect."
I break eye contact and grab my purse. "What about your fee? Your retainer must be?—"
"Don’t worry about it. We'll discuss payment after the meeting tomorrow."
"Caleb, I can't ask you to?—"
"You're not asking. I'm offering." He walks me to the door. "Nine AM tomorrow. We'll prep for Friday."
"I'll be here."