Chapter 1
Chapter one
Naomi
The corporate lawyer across the aisle has the kind of smirk that costs five hundred dollars an hour.
"Your Honor," he says, voice slick, "market conditions have altered the landscape of this agreement. My client acted in good faith, but—"
“But nothing,” I cut in, already on my feet.
The judge’s brows twitch, but he doesn’t stop me. He knows how this goes. We’ve danced this dance before.
I step into the center of the room, heels clicking. This is my favorite part.
“The defense wants us to believe a signed contract becomes optional when inconvenient.” I turn toward my client. “That a small business owner, Mrs. Vance, who you’ve heard testify today, should accept a corporation can walk away from its obligations because it found a cheaper supplier.”
She sits ramrod straight at the plaintiff's table, fingers clenched around a stack of papers. Behind her, in the gallery, her daughter and granddaughter watch from the wooden bench, the little girl staring at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
“The contract my client signed is clear.” I tap the exhibit binder. “Payment upon delivery of goods, as specified in section 4.2. Those goods were delivered on time, to specification, with documented proof of quality standards met and exceeded.”
The exhibit screen behind me flashes with dates, signatures, delivery confirmations. The opposing counsel shifts like his chair suddenly got uncomfortable.
"This isn't a 'changing market.' It's not a legal gray area." I let my gaze flick to him, then back to the judge. "It's corporate theft dressed up in jargon."
Someone in the gallery coughs. The silence sharpens.
“Contracts exist precisely because we can’t predict the future,” I go on, tone even.
“If parties were allowed to walk away whenever things became inconvenient, every business in this city would be one email away from collapse. My client did everything right. The defendant simply decided to act in bad faith.”
I step back toward my table, every movement deliberate, not a crack showing.
“The law doesn’t reward opportunism,” I finish. “It holds people to what they promised.”
I sit, and the sound of my chair meeting the floor might as well be a gavel cutting in my favor.
The judge removes his glasses and wipes them slowly with a folded handkerchief. Classic Judge Haddad, dragging out the suspense.
"Ms. Quinn makes a compelling argument," he says at last.
Across the aisle, the opposing counsel's team drops their eyes to their notes.
“I find no evidence that the plaintiff failed to meet her contractual obligations. The defense’s position relies on contingencies not contemplated in the original agreement.
” He slides his glasses back on. “I find in favor of the plaintiff. Full payment as stipulated, plus punitive damages for breach of contract in bad faith.”
The gavel comes down.
Beside me, Mrs. Vance makes a sound caught between a sob and a laugh. Then she pulls me into a hug, her limbs trembling with three months of anxiety finally releasing.
“Oh, thank you,” she breathes into my shoulder. “Thank you. My shop, my employees, my family—”
“You earned this,” I murmur, squeezing back. “You kept your end of the deal. They were the ones trying to cheat.”
When she pulls away, her mascara is a little smudged, and she looks ten years lighter.
“I don’t know how I could have afforded someone like you,” Mrs. Vance says, laughing.
“When you said pro bono, I thought maybe you were new, that you needed practice, but you—” she lifts a hand and makes an explosive gesture toward the defense table— “you destroyed them.”
Across the aisle, the corporate team packs up. They’ll bill for the loss and forget this case by dinner. Vultures in Armani. It’s a game to them, always has been.
To my client, it was survival.
I help gather her documents, sliding them into a neat stack, walking her through which copies to keep. The courtroom slowly empties around us, and once we're done, I walk with her toward the gallery where her daughter and granddaughter are waiting.
“Grandma,” the little girl, maybe seven years old, tugs on her grandmother's sleeve and whispers something in her ear. Mrs. Vance's lips twitch.
"Tell her," the girl hisses, nudging her grandmother when she doesn't immediately comply.
The older woman tsks fondly and turns to me. "My Sofia says she wants to look like you when she grows up. Like a movie star teacher."
Something warm blooms in my chest. "A movie star teacher?"
The girl scuffs her shoe on the floor, suddenly shy but determined. "Because your hair is red like Ariel's, but short. And you know all the answers."
I touch my bob self-consciously. It's not often I get compared to a Disney princess.
“Well,” I say, something warm unfurling in my chest, “if you ever want advice on law school when you grow up, your grandma has my email.”
She nods solemnly, and it feels as though we’ve just signed our own private contract.
I walk them out through the heavy courthouse doors, into the afternoon light where the city hums with its usual chaos. We say our goodbyes on the steps, Mrs. Vance hugs me again, her daughter thanks me, and Sofia gives me a tiny wave that makes my chest ache in the best way.
This is why I do it. Not the headlines. Not the stats. Moments like that.
I lean against a pillar, gather my files, and sling my bag over my shoulder. Finally, I flick my phone off airplane mode.
It immediately starts buzzing like an angry wasp trapped in my palm.
Three texts from Eliot, John, and Ezrela, former colleagues, all wanting contract advice.
And one email from Mia, my boss.
URGENT - Athlete Contract Dispute: Potential breach
* * *
I'm folding butter. Again.
Manhattan doesn't sleep, and neither do I. Not tonight.
So, butter and flour it is.
My phone buzzes against the island. It's Eliot again.
Him: Sorry to bother you twice in one day, but I used your argument from this afternoon, and now I just read an email from the opposing counsel claiming the non-compete kills our settlement. Am I screwed??
I huff out a breath, roll my shoulders, and start typing with floury fingers.
Me: Check §7.3(b) in your contract. Geographic restriction is North America only. Structure the new role through their EU subsidiary. Different entity. No conflict.
Three dots appear, vanish, reappear.
Eliot: HOLY SHIT. I missed that completely.
Eliot: You really are the fixer. I owe you sushi at Nobu.
The fixer. God, I hate that nickname.
I set the phone down, wash my hands, and press my fingers into the dough until the butter leaves pale ghosts on my skin.
My screen lights up again, this time with an incoming call.
Mia.
I swipe to accept and wedge the phone between shoulder and ear, hands still working the dough. "It's two in the morning."
"But I knew you'd be awake." Her voice crackles through, warm and amused. Somewhere behind her, bass thumps faintly, a bar, maybe, or a late-night lounge. "What are we sacrificing sleep for tonight?"
"Croissants," I say. "The complicated kind. What's wrong?"
"Wow, rude. Maybe I just wanted to discuss philosophy."
"You own a salon empire, Mia. You don't call your lawyer at 2 A.M. for small talk.
" I fold one corner of dough with surgical precision.
"But your Curl Up & Dye franchise numbers look beautiful.
I signed three franchise renewals for you yesterday.
So you're probably not calling about business…
Oh my god, is everything okay with your alphas? "
She huffs a laugh. "They're fine. And we're doing great. No, this is about Lakeview."
"The urgent email about three hockey players refusing to play at the Winter Festival opening game?"
"Yeah." The bass pulses behind her, and I hear her shift, like she's stepping somewhere quieter.
"So what's the holdup? I told you if the committee wanted a quick resolution, they could throw more money at them."
"I know, and I told them exactly what you said." She lets out a tired, humorless laugh. "Even offered to pay the difference myself."
"And?" I press the rolling pin into the dough.
"And they turned it down. The alphas, not the committee."
I pause mid-roll. "They turned down more money?"
"Yeah." She exhales sharply. "I'm actually stunned. I checked my phone a few minutes ago and saw they emailed me directly, claiming they're well within their rights to refuse to play."
I lean my hip against the counter. "On what grounds?"
"They just claim the date change lets them walk away." Her voice tightens with frustration. "Since moving the game from the twenty-eighth to the twenty-third wasn't explicitly covered, they're calling it a material breach, saying they can sit this one out."
My jaw tightens. "That's flimsy. Any decent contract has provisions for reasonable schedule modifications."
"Exactly. And yet…"
"So they're ignoring the actual words of a contract they signed?" I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, leaving a smudge of flour on my temple.
"Yep. They're very polite about it, though," she says, her tone dripping with sarcasm. "Lots of 'regret to inform you' and 'deep appreciation for the opportunity.' A beautifully worded middle finger."
Of course, it is.
"Let me ask the obvious question," I say. "Is it worth forcing players who don't want to be there onto the ice? Best-case scenario, they sulk. Worst-case, they tank the game on purpose."
"If they were anyone else, I'd say no," Mia says immediately. "But they're our best line. By far. And we… embarrassingly have no proper bench. Three replacement guys are injured, and everyone else is beer-league at best."
"And if you brought in ringers?" I ask. "Borrowed players from out of town?"
"The festival board would mutiny. The town would riot.
I'm not exaggerating." She groans quietly.
"Naomi, you haven't seen the way people talk about this pack.
Half the town's single omegas write them love letters, and the other half pretend they're above it while stalking their practice schedule. They think they're untouchable."
"Hence the audacity to pull this stunt," I mutter.
"Exactly." Her voice tightens. "And hence why I need you.
This game has happened every year for seventy-three years, Naomi.
It's not just tradition, it's the heartbeat of our winter festival.
The thing that pulls everyone together when it's freezing and dark and we all need a reason to get out of the house.
It's part of what holds this community together. "
My fingers tighten around the edge of the counter. Three hockey players think they can hold that hostage because they're used to getting whatever they want.
"So you want me to make this more trouble than it's worth for them," I say.
"Something like that." She sounds almost amused despite the situation. "Good thing, as an official festival sponsor, I can justify flying my best lawyer in to fix it."
"Then book me on the first flight," I say. "And send me everything. Contracts, player files, their politely worded tantrum... If they've so much as texted someone a complaint about this, I want screenshots."
"You're a lifesaver, Naomi. Thank you." The relief in her voice is palpable. "Just… don't underestimate them, okay? These aren't corporate suits you can intimidate with precedent. They're athletes who've been told they're gods since they first laced up their skates."
"I prefer it when they're cocky," I say, feeling a familiar spark of challenge. "Makes it more satisfying when they're forced into submission."
"There she is," Mia says, a smile creeping into her voice. "The fixer."
I groan. "Please don't call me that."