32. Serena
Serena
M y apartment looks like a cardboard box factory exploded.
We've been at it since eight this morning, systematically dismantling my life to rebuild it at Caleb's place.
The afternoon sun streams through my windows, making the dust motes dance as we tape another box shut.
The sound of packing tape ripping off the roll has become the soundtrack of my day.
"I can't believe you own this many shoes," Caleb says from my bedroom closet, his voice muffled. "This is like a Nordstrom stockroom."
"Those are investment pieces," I call back, wrapping another coffee mug in newspaper. The newsprint leaves my fingers gray.
"These are from Target." He emerges holding a pair of flats with the tag still on. "The tag says $12.99."
"Vintage Target. Very different."
He laughs, that rich sound that still makes my stomach flutter even after everything we've been through.
It's been two weeks since the board meeting, since Maya's betrayal came to light, since everything fell apart and came back together.
Two weeks of playing house at his penthouse while ignoring the fact that I eventually needed to come back here and deal with my life.
But last night, when he said, "Just move in already," I didn't argue.
I pause as I wrap a framed photo of my parents, thinking of Richard Sterling's face when I told him I wouldn't be coming back to Luminous.
He'd been so sure I'd accept the VP position—had even cleared an office and ordered business cards.
When I said no, his expression cycled through confusion, disbelief, and something that looked almost like respect.
"You're making a mistake," he'd said, but without heat. "We need you."
"No," I'd replied, surprising myself with how steady my voice was. "You need someone. It doesn't have to be me."
It had been terrifying and exhilarating, walking away from what I'd spent years building.
But with each box I pack, each roll of tape I use up, I feel lighter.
The weight of expectation—of having to be perfect Serena Morgan, marketing genius—has lifted.
I'm unemployed, directionless and weirdly happy about it.
"What about this?" Caleb holds up a framed motivational poster that says 'HUSTLE' in aggressive typography. "Please tell me this was ironic."
"It was a secret santa gift from Maya," I admit, and we both freeze at the mention of her name.
"Trash pile?" he asks carefully.
"Definitely trash pile."
He tosses it onto the growing heap of things I'm letting go. It lands with a satisfying crack of glass.
"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all.
"Don't be. It's cathartic." I seal another box and label it ‘Kitchen - Mugs I Actually Use.’ Next to it sits ‘Kitchen - Mugs I Never Use But Can't Part With For Some Reason.’
"You know I have mugs, right?" Caleb says, eyeing the boxes.
"I'm not parting with my mug collection," I tell him, taping up the box with more force than necessary. The tape gun makes a satisfying chunk sound. "Some of those are from college."
"You graduated eight years ago."
"And?"
"And that 'Keep Calm and Market On' monstrosity has a chip in it."
I point my packing tape gun at him. "First of all, it's a battle scar. Second, you don't get to judge my mug choices when you drink coffee out of what looks like a pencil holder."
"It's a designer mug," he protests, his mock offense making me smile despite myself.
"It's ridiculous. It looks like they forgot to finish it, and it doesn’t even have a handle. You’re the only man alive who could spend $300 to make drinking coffee feel like a punishment.
" I move to the bookshelf, running my fingers along the spines, leaving trails in the dust. "What about these? You already have most of them."
"Bring them anyway. We'll figure it out."
That's been his answer for everything these past weeks. We'll figure it out. Like the future is some puzzle we're putting together, with all the pieces already in the box.
I run my hand along the spines one more time, then turn to look at him.
He's standing in the middle of my living room, sleeves rolled up, a smudge of dust on his cheek.
His hair is sticking up where he's run his hands through it in frustration at my organizational system—or lack thereof.
It's the least polished I've ever seen him, and it makes my heart do something complicated in my chest.
"What?" he asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing. Just... this is really happening."
"Second thoughts?" His voice is casual, but I see the flash of vulnerability in his eyes.
"No," I say quickly. "Just... processing. I haven't lived with anyone since college."
"Neither have I." His voice softens as he puts down the box cutter and crosses to where I'm standing. "But I think we're doing pretty well so far."
I lean into him when his arms wrap around me, letting myself absorb the steadiness he radiates. We've been practically living together for weeks now, but making it official feels huge. Like I'm finally admitting that I'm not going anywhere.
"What if I drive you crazy?" I murmur against his chest. "What if my hair clogs the shower drain and my snoring keeps you up and you realize I'm actually terrible to live with?"
"You do snore," he agrees, and I swat his arm. "But I find it oddly endearing. Like a small bear hibernating."
"I do not snore like a bear!"
"More like a baby bear. A very cute, very small bear cub." He kisses me before I can respond, slow and thorough, the kind of kiss that makes me forget about being compared to a bear, about boxes and packing tape and the outside world entirely.
"If we keep this up, we'll never finish packing," I point out when we break apart.
"I'm OK with that." He's already backing me toward the couch. "The boxes can wait."
His phone rings.
We both freeze. Saturday morning calls are never good news.
"Ignore it," I say, but he's already pulling it out, frowning at the screen.
"It's Margaret." His assistant. Who never, ever calls on weekends.
The room tilts, like all the air’s been sucked out and gravity doubled at the same time. The warmth of a minute ago evaporates, replaced by something sharp and metallic pressing down on my chest.
"Take it," I say, though everything in me screams not to.
He answers, and I watch his face change—confusion, concern, then something I've never seen on Caleb Kingsley's face before. Fear. The color literally drains from his face, leaving him pale under the dust smudges.
"What do you mean, emergency meeting?" His voice is sharp. "Margaret, it's Saturday—" He goes silent, listening. "All the partners?" More silence. His knuckles are white where he's gripping the phone. "No, I'll be right there."
He hangs up, staring at the phone like it's a live grenade.
"What's wrong?"
"I have to go to the office." He's already reaching for his keys, his movements jerky. "Emergency partnership meeting."
"About what?"
"An ethics complaint." The words come out strangled. "Against me. Margaret wouldn't say more over the phone."
My stomach drops so fast I feel dizzy. Ethics complaint. Attorney ethics. Oh God. "Caleb?—"
"It's fine." But he doesn't meet my eyes as he puts on his jacket. "Probably some disgruntled opposing counsel. Happens all the time."
We both know he's lying. This isn't routine. Emergency partnership meetings don't happen for minor complaints.
"Is this… about us?" I ask quietly. "About you representing me?"
"It can't be." But he still won't meet my eyes. "We didn't do anything wrong."
Except we both know how it looks. An attorney who required a date as payment for representation.
A vulnerable client who was desperate for help.
Even though we know the truth—that he would have helped me anyway, that our feelings existed before—it won't matter to an ethics board. The optics are damning.
"I have to go," he says again, and this time he does look at me. The fear in his eyes makes my chest tight. "I'll call you as soon as I know what's happening."
"I'm coming with you."
"Serena, no. You can't?—"
"The hell I can't." I'm already grabbing my purse, my keys. "If this is about us, about our case, then I have every right to be there."
"You'll make it worse." The words come out harsh, and I see him wince immediately. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean?—"
"Yes, you did." My voice is steady, but inside I'm fracturing. "You meant exactly that. And you're right. But, how, Caleb? How would they have even found out about our agreement? It's not like we wrote it down."
He steps toward me, hands raised like he's trying to calm a spooked animal. "Serena, we don't even know if this is what the complaint is about. Ethics complaints can be about anything—a missed filing, a procedural error, a conflict of interest with another client..."
"Don't patronize me," I snap, fear making my voice sharp. "Emergency Saturday meetings aren't called unless it's something big. What else have you done that's as big as asking me to date you as payment? Nothing, right?"
He runs his hand through his hair, frustrated and tense. "This is why you need to stay here. If they see you at the office with me right now, it'll only confirm whatever they think they know."
"So it is about us." My voice drops to a whisper.
"I don't know that. But I can't risk it."
I take a step back, feeling the couch hit the backs of my knees.
The cardboard box fortress we've built suddenly feels like a monument to my stupidity.
Of course this would happen. Of course the universe wouldn't let me have this.
The one good thing I've found in the wreckage of my life, and now it's threatening to destroy him too.
"Serena." He steps toward me, but I shake my head.
"Go," I say. "Handle it. I'll be here."
He hesitates, clearly torn between staying and going.
"Go," I repeat, more firmly this time. "The sooner you find out what's happening, the sooner we can fix it."