Chapter One #2
I put on a robe and head to the meditation room.
A stone path cuts the space from the door to the seating area in the center, floored with tatami mats flown in from Japan.
A rock garden occupies the rest of the space, with windows on two sides to let in the sun.
The pale gravel is raked like a river surrounding the center.
A few bigger rocks add variety, some arranged like mountain ranges and some like cliffs.
I purposely created this in my home because I once found a modicum of calm at the rock garden in Ryoanji with my late Japanese grandmother.
I sit seiza on the mats, butt resting on my heels, then heat some water in the small cast-iron pot, whisk up some matcha and serve it to myself.
The soft, grassy scent of the tea helps with focus.
I try to empty my mind and concentrate my attention on the frothy tea, its intense flavor spreading on my tongue, and the air filling and leaving my lungs.
With each breath, the tension in my shoulders begins to ease a little.
Still, a remnant of the fear lingers. And violent urges from the nightmare continue to nip at me.
I take the final sip of tea and exhale. Frustration bubbles that the gym workout and meditation failed to settle my mind.
I bite back a curse, get up and get ready for work. It’s necessary to select my mask with deliberation—to contain my urges and show only a civilized veneer to the world.
The careful styling of my dark hair. A crisp white shirt. Silver cuff links in the shape of wolf’s heads with ruby eyes. A muted burgundy tie with a Novotny knot. A navy three-piece suit by Lorenzo Cifonelli. Hand-stitched shoes, laced straight and polished to a mirrorlike perfection.
Now I no longer look like a potential monster, but a successful lawyer. The kind of civilized person who upholds the law.
I run my hand over the silver cane hanging in my walk-in closet, from the knob in the shape of the wolf’s head to the long, slim body.
My fingertips linger over the Pietas et unitas etched on the side in fancy filigree.
It’s a reminder of who I am and how I should live my life.
To protect my family against my mother and her schemes.
Perhaps from myself, if I really am anything like her.
It’s not quite eight by the time I arrive at Huxley the door opens, and Ailee Klein steps in.
Standing at about five-six, she’s a bundle of sweet energy.
As usual, my assistant is in a pretty dress—today it’s creamy beige with cosmos prints that flatter her curvaceous figure.
Long, curly platinum hair frames her face.
She has adorably soft cheeks that remind me of the sweet Fuji apples from Aomori I used to enjoy in Japan.
Klein’s violet eyes crinkle. I zero in on the generous lines of her lips, which I could stare at literally forever. They’re always soft, and usually curved into a sunny smile—like now—that never fails to brighten my mood.
And suddenly the ugly tension that’s been lingering since the nightmare dissipates.
“Good morning, Josh,” she says cheerfully. I smile back because it’s impossible not to when dealing with her.
“Morning, Klein.” I always try to use her last name. Don’t want to mess up and call her by the nickname I shouldn’t use.
“Here’s your coffee.” She places an iced latte—what I prefer in the morning—next to my laptop. “And your flowers.” She puts a vase full of pink echinaceas on my desk, next to the mini-clock. The office transforms from an efficient workplace to something more welcoming and soothing.
She hands me an expense report with receipts for flowers for the month, neatly organized chronologically.
I told her it wasn’t necessary for purchases under fifty bucks.
Each associate gets an annual use-it-or-lose-it budget for office décor and improvements, and the expenses for the flowers come out of that sum.
But she said it didn’t feel right for her to spend my money without giving me all the receipts.
More proof that I made the right decision three years ago.
I wasn’t sure about her in the beginning.
Although I was inheriting her from another lawyer at the firm, she had only two months of relevant experience.
I was going to decline without an interview, except her previous boss said he felt bad about her situation.
He was quitting due to health issues, and she’d rejected a good offer to come to Huxley & Webber.
When she stopped by my office for a quick interview, I had plenty of pointed questions ready to go, determined to prove she really wasn’t the right fit for the position.
But she greeted me with that sunny smile…
and every nerve in my body relaxed, like it was basking in a kind of honeyed warmth.
I couldn’t think of a single reason to say no.
She turned out to be an excellent assistant. Hardworking and quick to learn new skills. I secretly think she’s more amazing than Bryce’s assistant Amélie, although he would disagree to his dying breath.