2. Abigail
ABIGAIL
The afternoon drags. I’m at my desk, buried in emails, when my stomach growls loud enough to compete with the hum of the AC.
I yank open the drawer, hoping to find a forgotten granola bar or maybe a rogue packet of almonds, but it jams halfway.
After a brief and half-hearted struggle, I give up and slam it shut.
Will Carter might have a fancy office and a reputation that makes even the best of us sweat, but I’ve got something better: a winning case. And I’ll be damned if I let Donovan’s family pay the price for the rest of their lives just because Will thinks he’s a big-shot.
I’m halfway through my next email when Judy swings the door open.
“Got a minute?” she asks, eyes bright with that familiar spark.
The kind that means she’s dying to share something.
I peek through the gaps in my battered blinds to make sure Neil isn’t nearby, then wave her in.
He’s a walking landmine. One day he’s all about team-building and collaboration; the next, he’s glaring at anyone who so much as laughs near the coffee machine.
After a few too many run-ins with his temper, I’ve learned to be careful.
With Neil, you never know which version you’re going to get.
Judy and I came in as first-years together, and we clicked instantly. Most days, I’m pretty sure we’re the only reason the other hasn’t quit. This place grinds you down, but at least we’re grinding together. And who’s to say anywhere else would be better? At least here, I’ve got Judy.
She drops into the chair across from me, practically humming with energy in a bright neon yellow power suit and matching heels. Her strawberry blonde hair is tucked into a loose low bun, a few strands slipping free around her temple.
“I did it,” she says, her eyes glowing with excitement.
I blink, mentally flipping through my internal Rolodex of all the things she could mean. Judy is nothing but ideas. It could be anything.
She reads my blank stare and clarifies, “The foundation. I registered it.”
Oh. Right. That.
When Judy first pitched her idea for a foundation promoting colorful courtroom fashion—complete with inspirational photos of a man in a flamingo-pink suit—I dismissed it as just another one of her wild, half-baked visions.
The kind she never actually pursues. But she was passionate about this one.
According to Judy, lawyers are emotionally suffocated by archaic traditions, and the legal world would be a better place if we could all just wear what we wanted and still command respect.
I’d never really thought about it before but I’m no fashionista. My wardrobe is a predictable rotation of navy, black and white. Nothing too flashy or risky. But hey, if other people want to argue cases in electric blue or sunshine yellow? More power to them.
“That’s exciting,” I say.
“I was thinking you could announce the foundation tomorrow night,” Judy says, beaming. “You know, since lawyers are technically my target market.”
“Don’t remind me.” I drop my face into my hands.
What was I thinking? I wasn’t, clearly. When Neil asked for volunteers to speak at the Alton Hills Bar Association’s quarterly meeting, my hand shot up.
At the time, I was trying to convince him to give me bigger cases.
I thought I’d get a five-minute warm-up slot.
Maybe introduce the real speaker. Not end up as the keynote.
I’ve practiced my speech exactly seventy-three times, and still, my hands tremble at the thought of stepping onto that stage.
“You’re going to do fine. No one shows up anymore.”
She’s not wrong. Attendance has dropped to barely a hundred.
What’s the worst that could happen? I humiliate myself in front of a hundred half-interested peers?
Before I spiral, Judy comes around my desk and types her website into my browser.
The page loads in agonizing increments. When it finally appears, it hits me like a full-frontal assault of neon.
Pulsing greens, blinding yellows, migraine-inducing pinks.
The site pulses like it’s trying to induce a seizure on purpose.
The text is worse. Tiny, curling white cursive, nearly swallowed by the radioactive glow behind it.
I squint, wondering if this is what going blind feels like.
The Bold Justice Foundation is a not-for-profit with a mission to bring more color into law. We’re sick of boring white, black, and navy. We should be able to show personality and still be taken seriously.
I scroll down and find a massive lime green Donate button, surrounded by flashing blue arrows.
“I’ll be the first to donate,” I say, pulling my credit card from my purse. Judy squeals, her excitement infectious. I might not fully understand the cause, but if it matters to her, it matters to me. I punch in $200 before I can second-guess it.
“If we get everyone to donate tomorrow, I could run a real campaign. Maybe even a TV ad,” Judy says, more to herself than to me.
A shadow glides past the blinds, and I tilt my head. That lanky, impatient stride—
“Neil,” I whisper. Judy straightens instantly, snatching a folder from my desk like it’s a prop in a crime scene.
“Thanks for the file,” she says. She’s already halfway to the door when Neil shoulders his way in. She offers him a tight nod and slips past, leaving a strange charge in the air behind her. Neil plants himself in the doorway, arms crossed, legs braced like he’s blocking a pass.
“How did it go today?” he asks.
I don’t need to ask what he means. Pinnacle Health. I don’t know the full history, but I know he’s dealt with Will before. From the way he talks about him, it didn’t end well.
“Good. They offered two. I held at four and a half.”
His eyes flash. “You didn’t settle?”
“No.”
His disapproval settles immediately. “You don’t want to go up against Carter in court.”
“I’ve got it handled.” The lie comes out smoother than I expect.
Neil doesn’t move. He just stares, sharp-eyed and silent, seconds stretching between us. Then, without a word, he turns and walks off, leaving my door wide open behind him.
The moment he’s gone, my mask cracks. The truth? I don’t exactly have it handled.
But I will.
I turn back to my screen just in time to see a new message appear at the top of my inbox.
Speak of the devil.
Miss Reed,
Click here.
Kind regards,
Will Carter
Carter & Ross
I click the hyperlink, and a news article from The Bulletin published this morning pops up.
Insurance Fraud Exposed After Social Media Slip-Up.
A man faked a serious back injury in an attempt to scam a multi-six-figure payout. That was until investigators uncovered videos of him weightlifting, skydiving, and competing in a CrossFit competition. He now faces charges of insurance fraud and could spend up to five years in prison.
Shit.
Donovan isn’t faking his injuries, but thanks to this mess, every victim’s claim is about to be scrutinized.
At least the news cycle moves fast. With any luck, this will blow over long before we go to court.
I can practically picture Will now, lounging at his glossy desk in that sleek, high-rise office of his, smirking as if he thinks I’m sweating over this.
I hit reply.
Mr. Carter,
I’d say I’m surprised by your cheap scare tactics, but honestly, I’m not.
Regards,
Abigail Reed
Strauss & Associates
My hands hover over the keyboard. Antagonizing him might not be the smartest move, but I won’t let him think he’s getting to me. If I show even a hint of weakness, he’ll never back off.
I pull up a case I bookmarked weeks ago, one that steeled my resolve. A woman was hit by a car and suffered a minor pelvic fracture. The settlement? $1.8 million. And she’s walking again. Back at work. No chronic pain. If Will thinks we’ll take anything under 3.5, he’s delusional.
I attach the link and hit send before I can second-guess myself.
Two emails later, my inbox pings.
Already?
His reply stares back at me.
Miss Reed,
I’ve looked into you.
You don’t make it to court often, because you’re not a fighter. You’re a settler.
So settle.
Kind regards,
Will Carter
Carter & Ross
I am a fighter. Just one who prefers negotiation over courtroom theatrics. I believe in fair deals, and most of the time, I get them long before a judge is involved. If Will wants to mistake my approach for weakness, let him.
Strategy matters. Settling would be ideal, but I won’t hesitate to take this to court if that’s what it takes to get Donovan what he deserves. I won’t let them treat Donovan as collateral damage in some corporate cost-cutting scheme.
To them, he’s just a case number.
To me, he’s a man with a family, dreams, and a life that was torn apart the moment that car hit him.
Donovan hates the idea of going to the press, but he might reconsider if it came to that. Bad publicity could force Pinnacle’s hand. But with this injury fraud story circulating, that option is dead in the water. At least for now.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. Then I click Reply.
Mr. Carter,
People settle with me because they know one thing: I don’t take a losing case. Seems you’ll need a firsthand lesson in that.
Regards,
Abigail Reed
Strauss & Associates
My sheer audacity almost makes me laugh. It’s a transparent lie, but bluffing is the only move I have right now.
His reply arrives before I’ve even finished exhaling.
Miss Reed,
Your confidence would be admirable if it weren’t so catastrophically misplaced.
Kind regards,
Will Carter
Carter & Ross
He infuriates me.
I type his name into the search bar, scrolling through the same tired articles, hoping something new might finally surface.
Before this case, I didn’t realize Will Carter was one of those Carters—the ones behind the luxury fashion house.
They don’t just have money. They have heaps of it. The kind that never runs out.
Will and his three infuriatingly perfect brothers could easily spend their days lounging on a superyacht, sipping vintage champagne, and never lifting a finger. That’s the level of wealth we’re talking about.
But instead, Will chooses to be in court, tearing lives apart for sport. And the only reason I can think of is that he enjoys it.
For him, this isn’t about justice. It’s just a game. Bloodsport.
And I just agreed to step into the ring with him.
What was I thinking?