34. Caleb
Caleb
T he conference room on the thirty-second floor has never felt more like a courtroom.
Or maybe a funeral parlor. Three weeks of preparation, and it all comes down to this—the other two name partners along with five senior partners, all sitting in judgment while I defend my career, my reputation, and the only relationship that's ever mattered to me.
Three weeks since Serena said she loved me in her apartment, surrounded by boxes and the wreckage of our plans. Three weeks of her reminding me every morning that she's not running, that she's in this fight with me. Three weeks of learning what it means to be stupidly happy and in love.
"Mr. Kingsley," Harold Whitman begins, adjusting his bifocals with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice.
He's been at the firm for forty years and still calls emails 'electronic correspondence.
' "We're here to address the... romantic situation.
.. that developed during your representation of Ms. Morgan. "
Beside me, my attorney—brought in from outside the firm for objectivity—doesn't even try to hide his smirk at 'romantic situation.'
"The alleged canoodling," Eugene Park interjects, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Or rather, the... intimate relations that may or may not have?—"
"Can we please just call it what it is?" Miriam Ritchie, one of the newer senior partners, cuts in. "He slept with a client. The question is whether it violated ethics rules."
My jaw tightens. Three weeks of this—dancing around words, treating my relationship with Serena like it's something dirty or shameful. The boxes in her apartment still sit packed, waiting for this nightmare to end so we can finally move forward with our lives.
"If I may," my attorney says smoothly. "Mr. Kingsley and Ms. Morgan had a relationship that came before any attorney-client relationship. They met via friends at least eight months before she sought legal counsel."
"But he made representation dependent on personal interaction," Whitman reads from his notes. "According to the complaint, he required Ms. Morgan to have a relationship with him as payment for services. This started with dinner and quickly progressed to something physical, am I correct?"
I force myself to stay silent, even though every instinct screams to defend myself. My attorney warned me—let him handle the technical arguments. Save my testimony for when it matters.
"The dinner was a gesture," my attorney argues. "Everything else was consensual. Mr. Kingsley would have represented Ms. Morgan regardless. The evidence will show?—"
"Let's hear from Ms. Morgan herself," Ritchie suggests. "She's waiting outside."
My entire body goes rigid. I knew this was coming. We'd prepared for it, talked through every possible question. But seeing Serena walk through those doors in her sharp black suit, chin high despite the circumstances, makes my chest constrict with pride and terror in equal measure.
She catches my eye as she takes her seat at the witness table, and I see the same determination she had when she told me she loved me, when she said she was done running. She's here to fight for us.
"Ms. Morgan," Whitman begins, "can you describe the nature of your relationship with Mr. Kingsley when you first sought his legal counsel?"
"We had met previously at social events," she says, voice steady. "There was... attraction. Mutual attraction."
"So you would describe your relationship as personal, but not romantic, prior to your legal engagement?" Miriam Ritchie asks, pushing her glasses up her nose with skepticism that feels more nosy than professional.
"Define romantic," Serena says, and there's a flicker of the old, impossible-to-rattle bravado.
"We flirted. We traded numbers. I shot him down repeatedly.
If that's romantic, sure." She glances at me, a quick flick of her dark eyes, then back at the partners.
"But we weren't sleeping together, if that's what you're asking. "
"And the payment he required from you—the dinner?" Whitman adds. "How did you interpret that?"
"Honestly?" She leans in, elbows light on the witness table.
"I thought he was trying to get me to face up to the fact that I liked him.
I thought it was a dare, not blackmail. He wanted to spend time with me.
Not as payment for services, but because we had unfinished business from months of avoiding each other. "
"But technically," Whitman presses, "he made representation dependent on personal interaction?"
"Technically, no. He said he didn't want my money. I said I didn’t want him working for free. I offered to barter cookies—I make a great snickerdoodle. And he said he wanted my time. There was no mention that he wouldn't take my case if I refused."
My knuckles are white where I'm gripping the table edge.
"And when did the relationship become..." Eugene pauses, searching for words, "...physical in nature?"
"The alleged canoodling," Park mutters under his breath, earning a glare from Ritchie.
Serena's composure doesn't waver this time.
She's ready for this question. "After our first official date.
We'd met with Luminous on a Friday, had lunch to discuss afterward, later that day we texted about having a 'do over' of our original date from months before.
We went out that night and our relationship became physical after that. "
"So the relationship was ongoing during active representation?" Whitman clarifies.
"Yes," she says. "It was ongoing, and I don't deny that.
But the important thing is there was never any suggestion that I had to sleep with him to keep his legal help.
We were two people who had been circling each other for months finally admitting we had feelings.
" She pauses, glancing at me. "The case gave us an excuse to spend time together, but what happened between us was completely separate from the legal representation. "
"And you felt no coercion? No sense that your legal outcome depended on your personal relationship?"
Serena actually laughs. "Have you met Caleb Kingsley? I don't think he's the kind of man who needs to pressure women."
Miriam’s not done. I can see it in the way she leans forward as if to physically burrow beneath Serena's skin.
"Ms. Morgan, you're an intelligent woman—the committee recognizes your career, your awards, your leadership at Luminous.
And yet you entered into what some might consider a compromised professional arrangement with your attorney.
Doesn't that strike you as a little…” She hesitates, like she wants to savor the word. "Inappropriate?"
It's not even the question so much as the implication behind it and for a second the question hangs in the air, ugly and barbed.
I expect Serena to hedge, to pivot, maybe to play the self-deprecating card like she always does.
But instead, something in her face goes hard.
She lets the silence stretch, lets it get uncomfortable enough that even Whitman shifts in his chair.
"No," she says flatly. "It doesn't strike me as inappropriate."
Miriam leans in. "You don't think an attorney leveraging client vulnerability for personal or romantic gain is?—"
"That's not what happened," Serena cuts in, voice sharp. She leans forward, hands flat on the table. "You want to know if I felt pressured? Let me tell you what pressure feels like."
"Ms. Morgan—" Eugene starts.
"Pressure," Serena continues, her voice rising, "is having your career destroyed by someone you trusted.
Pressure is being hounded by the press, having your name dragged through the mud, and feeling like your entire life is over.
Pressure is sitting in a room full of powerful men who are deciding your fate.
" Her eyes sweep across the table, landing on each partner before returning to Miriam.
"Caleb Kingsley wasn't pressure. He was the opposite of pressure. "
I should stop her. My attorney is already half-standing, ready to intervene. But I can't move, can't breathe, can only watch as Serena Morgan goes to war for us.
"You want to know the truth about what happened?
The truth is that Caleb Kingsley saved my career.
He worked around the clock, called in favors, put his own reputation on the line for me.
And yes, he asked me to dinner. Because for six months, we'd been dancing around something that scared us both. "
"Ms. Morgan, please—" Whitman tries.
"The truth is that I was falling apart, and he held me together. The truth is that when everyone else saw a liability, he saw someone worth fighting for. The truth is that he makes me want to be braver than I am."
She stops, chest heaving, then looks directly at me. Her eyes are bright with unshed tears, but there's no hesitation in them. Only love. Only certainty.
"The truth is I love him."
The room goes completely silent. Even Eugene stops fidgeting with his pen.
"I love him," she repeats, and I can hear the echo of that night three weeks ago when she first said those words to me in private.
But this—this is her declaring it to the world.
"Not because he was my lawyer. Not out of gratitude. I love him because he sees all of me—the messy, imperfect, terrified parts—and he’s never once asked me to be different. "
Tears are streaming down her face now, but she doesn't wipe them away.
"I love him because he waited for me to be ready instead of pushing. Because he made me laugh when I wanted to hide. Because he held on when I wanted to run. And he fought for me when I couldn't fight for myself."