Chapter 1
Chapter One
Beau
The parking deck smelled of oil and the nearby James River — that nostalgic Richmond musk that hit me right in the gut. I cut the engine of my Mercedes and just sat there for a second, hands on the steering wheel, watching my breath ghost in the frigid air.
I’d been back in Richmond for exactly one week, and it already felt like a month.
My parent’s estate in Windsor Farms was as big and drafty as I remembered, all high ceilings and antique furniture designed more for show than comfort.
My mother kept the thermostat set somewhere between “arctic” and “cryogenic preservation.” She claimed it was invigorating.
My father called it barbaric. Their marriage had been in the ICU for years, and I had a sneaking suspicion my triumphant homecoming was less about family togetherness and more about giving them a new conversational chew toy.
Still, I couldn’t complain too loudly. In another week, I’d be in my new condo in Shockoe Bottom—a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the James River that looked like a painting.
The place was sleek, modern, and gloriously mine.
No lace curtains, no polite silences, and definitely no “Beau, darling, don’t slouch in front of the guests. ”
I climbed out of the car, locked it with a chirp, and slung my briefcase over my shoulder. First day. New job. A bright morning that made a man feel like he might just pull off the impossible—reinventing himself in the same city he swore he’d never return to.
The air outside had a sharp winter bite as I crossed Franklin Street toward the glass-and-steel high-rise that housed Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown, one of the most prestigious law firms in Virginia.
I missed California—the ocean, the culture, the sense that everyone was chasing something bigger.
But San Francisco had too many people chasing the same damn thing.
Back there, I was just another overqualified minnow darting through an enormous pond.
Here in Richmond, I could be the shark. The job offer from HRB had been too good to pass up: senior associate, performance-based bonuses, and the kind of client roster that could turn “Thatcher” into a brand name.
Of course, I had my suspicions about how the offer materialized in the first place.
I could practically picture my father holding court at the Country Club of Virginia, scotch in hand, bragging to Judge Hollingsworth about his “brilliant boy from Stanford Law.” Meanwhile, my mother would butter up Mrs. Hollingsworth at her weekly bridge game, dropping not-so-subtle hints about how Beau would be perfect for the firm.
Whatever strings they’d pulled, they’d worked.
The lobby of HRB’s building gleamed with marble floors and chrome fixtures.
A massive abstract painting dominated one wall, the kind of art that looked like someone had thrown a tantrum with a can of blue paint.
Behind the security desk sat a man who looked like he’d been there since the Carter administration—gray hair, gray mustache, gray mood.
“Morning,” I said, flashing what I hoped was a winning smile. “Beau Thatcher, first day at Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown.”
The man squinted at his monitor. “You’re on the list,” he grunted, then cracked a smile that softened his bulldog face. “I’m Mario. They said you’d be coming. Nineteenth floor. Elevators to your left.”
“Thanks, Mario.”
The elevator chimed open, and I stepped inside. My reflection stared back at me in the mirrored doors: tailored navy suit, pale blue tie, black wavy hair perfectly in place. If I looked nervous, at least I looked good doing it.
The elevator stopped on the fourteenth floor, and the doors slid open to reveal a woman with dark curls pinned in a bun and a coffee cup the size of a small child. She wore a fitted pencil skirt and a look of perpetual efficiency.
She reached for the control panel, noticed the 19th floor already lit, then gave me a once-over. “You’re Beau Thatcher, right?”
“Guilty as charged,” I said, smiling. “And you are?”
“Lisa Morales,” she said, grinning as she extended her free hand. “Senior paralegal. Mrs. Hollingsworth asked me to show you around and then take you to a meeting.”
The elevator dinged again, and the doors opened onto the 19th floor—sleek, polished, and humming with quiet energy.
“Welcome to the big leagues,” Lisa said, stepping aside so I could follow her out. “Try not to look too impressed.”
Too late for that. I was already impressed—and just a little terrified.
Lisa guided me through a maze of glass-walled offices and open workspaces that hummed with quiet productivity. Associates hunched over laptops, paralegals shuttled between cubicles with armfuls of files, and somewhere a printer churned out what sounded like the entire U.S. Tax Code.
“Coffee station’s over there,” Lisa said, gesturing to a sleek chrome setup that looked like it belonged on a spaceship. “Free espresso, cappuccino, whatever keeps you upright. We go through about forty pounds of beans a week, which tells you everything you need to know about this place.”
I grinned. “Noted. What’s the office culture like?”
She gave me a look that was equal parts amusement and warning. “Competitive. Everyone’s smart, everyone’s hungry, and everyone thinks they’re one billable hour away from making partner.” She paused at a corner office with floor-to-ceiling windows. “Case in point—Mason Price.”
My stomach dropped.
Through the glass, I could see him: bent over a stack of documents, one hand holding a pen, the other pushing through that wavy blond hair I remembered too well.
He wore a charcoal suit that was perfectly tailored, and even from here I could see the sharp focus in his expression—like the rest of the world had faded to static and only the case in front of him mattered.
Fifteen years. It had been fifteen goddamn years since that lacrosse field, and somehow he looked exactly the same. Older, sure—sharper lines around his jaw, broader shoulders—but still unmistakably him.
“Mason’s our golden boy,” Lisa continued, oblivious to the fact that my pulse had kicked into overdrive.
“Joined the firm straight out of Princeton Law, works like a machine, clients love him. He’s probably going to make partner before he’s thirty-five.
” She lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“He’s also a bit of a robot. Polite, professional, but I’ve never seen the man crack a genuine smile.
I’m pretty sure he irons his underwear.”
I forced a laugh. “Sounds like a blast at parties.”
“Oh, he doesn’t go to parties. He works.” She started walking again, and I followed, grateful to put distance between me and that glass wall. “Come on, the conference room’s this way. Mrs. Hollingsworth wants to introduce you to the team.”
My heart was still pounding. Mason Price. Here. Of all the law firms in Virginia, of course I’d end up at his.
The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
The conference room was all polished mahogany and leather chairs, with a view of downtown Richmond that would’ve been impressive if I wasn’t too busy trying not to throw up. Around the long table sat a handful of attorneys and paralegals, all looking extra caffeinated.
At the head of the table sat two people who could only be the senior partners: a silver-haired man in an immaculate suit who radiated quiet menace, and a woman with honey-blonde hair and pearls who looked like she hosted charity galas in her sleep—because she did.
“Beau!” The woman stood, her face lighting up with genuine warmth as she rounded the table. “Oh, sweetheart, look at you! All grown up and polished.”
Patricia Hollingsworth pulled me into a brief hug—the kind that smelled like Chanel No. 5 and old Richmond money—before stepping back to look at me properly. “Your mother is absolutely beside herself with pride about you working here, though she’d never admit it.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Hi, Mrs. Hollingsworth. It’s good to see you.”
“Patsy, darling. We’re colleagues now.” She squeezed my arm affectionately. “Though I have to say, the last time I saw you, you were what—nineteen? Twenty? Home from college for the summer and trying to avoid one of your mother’s garden parties?”
“Guilty as charged.”
She laughed, that easy Southern warmth making the formal conference room feel a little less intimidating.
“Well, you’ve certainly come a long way since then.
Your mother brags about you every Thursday at bridge.
‘My Beau graduated from Stanford Law, top of his class’—I could recite her speech in my sleep. ”
I felt my neck flush. “She exaggerates.”
“Does she?” Patsy’s eyes twinkled. “We’ll see about that.”
She gestured to the man beside her, who had been watching our exchange with the patient stillness of a predator. “This is Carter Rhoads, my co-founder and managing partner.”
Carter stood, extending his hand. His handshake was firm, calculated—the kind that tested you without seeming to. Up close, he was even more imposing: sharp gray eyes that missed nothing, a jaw carved from granite, and a stillness that made you want to confess to crimes you didn’t commit.
“Mr. Thatcher,” he said, his voice smooth and measured. “Welcome to Hollingsworth, Rhoads, and Brown.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s an honor to be here.”
“An honor we don’t extend lightly.” He released my hand and remained standing, studying me with the detached interest of a scientist examining a specimen.
“I’ve reviewed your file extensively. Stanford Law—impressive.
Your trial record in California—even more so.
Three consecutive wins in cases most attorneys would have settled. ”
“I don’t like settling, sir.”