3. Will
WILL
It’s Friday afternoon. I lean back in my chair and turn toward the window. On a good day, the view’s not bad. Rows of palm trees lining sun-bleached streets, the hills soft in the distance, the sky wide, blue, and endless.
But today? Just smog and gridlock traffic. Horns blaring. Brake lights flickering. The hills are barely visible through the haze, and everything’s soaked in that gray, exhausted light.
The whole city feels like it’s holding its breath.
Or maybe it’s just me. There’s this restless buzz under my skin I can’t shake. No real reason for it. By all accounts, today has been a win. Three cases settled in our favor, a proper lunch for once, and that tech case? All but signed.
And yet, something gnaws at me.
I pick up a pen. Tap it. Set it down.
My inbox is empty. My desk is clean.
Still, I feel like I’ve missed something. Or forgot something I shouldn’t have.
I flip my call log around. A neat column of crossed-off names. My eyes pause halfway down.
Martin Long. Pinnacle Health.
They weren’t pleased. I was certain we’d settle the Jones case yesterday. My business partner, Vince Ross, looked genuinely stunned when I told him I hadn’t.
But it’s not my fault Jones hired the most headstrong, delusional lawyer he could find.
Abigail Reed.
Of course I looked her up beforehand. Barely any online presence. Just a generic corporate headshot: soft features, dark waves, a careful, demure smile.
She seemed like the kind of woman who would fold under pressure.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she walked in late, spinning some ridiculous story about a lost child in the lobby. Doe-eyed innocence wrapped in a white dress.
An easy mark, I thought.
I was wrong.
Miss Reed was sharp. Confident. And, dare I say it, competent.
I had Martha, my assistant, dig for intel after she left, but the woman’s a ghost. A fucking mystery.
Lawyers love to preen over their wins, so how the hell has she stayed invisible?
As far as I can tell, she’s never had a major case. But maybe that’s the strategy. Stay quiet, stay small, let people underestimate her.
I rub my forehead. That whole performance, the soft voice, the Oh, I just had to help a lost child routine, was calculated.
I check my watch.
This is a problem.
I need to know exactly what I’m dealing with.
The security office is tucked away in a dimly lit corner on the ground floor, its door slightly ajar.
I knock and push it open without waiting for a response.
Inside, the security guard is sprawled in his chair, head tilted back, eyes shut, with a pair of headphones clamped over his ears.
The faint thump of bass leaks out, and he doesn’t notice me at first. I step closer, yank the headphones off, and he jerks awake, nearly toppling out of his seat.
“I need to see the footage from the lobby. Yesterday morning.”
He blinks, still disoriented, then shakes his head. “I’m not supposed to—”
“You’re not supposed to be sleeping on the job either.”
He hesitates. I don’t have time for this. I pull out my wallet, slide a couple of bills across the desk, and lean in. “If you were already watching the footage, and I just happened to be here…well, that’s not your fault, is it?”
He glances at the money, then at me. “What time?”
I give him the details, and he pulls up the footage. The screen flickers to life, and there she is.
Abigail strides into the lobby, arms clamped around those cheap plastic folders like they’re holding state secrets. Head high, steps precise. She beelines for the elevator, and I watch, jaw tight, as she joins the line.
Got you. Of course she lied. Lawyers lie. It’s in the job description.
But then, she breaks away.
“Follow her,” I say. The angle shifts. She approaches a girl, small and hunched. Abigail crouches. Says something. And then she stays.
She stands with the girl and scans the lobby.
“Speed it up,” I snap. A minute later, some asshole yanks the girl away. Abigail smooths her skirt and rejoins the elevator line like nothing happened.
So, she wasn’t lying. This shouldn’t unsettle me. But it does.
“Want another angle?” he asks. We’ve seen everything. What else could there be?
But he switches feeds anyway, zooming in on her face as she crouches before the girl. The image is startlingly clear. She says something, and then she smiles. I see the faint creases at the corners of her eyes, the way her mouth softens. It’s so warm. Gentle.
My throat tightens.
This doesn’t match the ice queen I met yesterday. It doesn’t add up. People shouldn’t be this inconsistent. It’s unsettling. A strange, uneasy feeling settles in my chest, like I’ve swallowed something alive and it’s squirming around in there.
I don’t like it.
As I pass Martha on my way back to my office, I snap, “Get Abigail Reed on the line.” Back at my desk, the call connects after a beat of silence, just long enough for the strange hum in my chest to tighten.
What the hell is this? A heart attack? I’m only thirty-six.
I exhale sharply and drag my focus back to the screen.
Abigail’s profile glares back at me from the Strauss & Associates website.
The polished black-and-white portrait reveals what motion conceals: her left eye a fraction narrower than the right, the asymmetry of her smile, two faint lines on one side and just one on the other.
She’s very attractive. Not that I missed that yesterday, but it takes more than a pretty face to distract me.
“Abigail Reed speaking,” she says through the phone. My chest flutters, and I can’t form a word. “Hello?”
“Hi.” I clear my throat, swallowing hard. “I hope you’re well.” I cringe. What the fuck am I doing? I look away from her picture.
“I’m well. Who am I speaking with?” she says. What kind of shoddy practice is this? Not announcing me. The incompetence is infuriating.
“Will Carter.”
“What can I do for you, Mr Carter?” she asks, her tone flicking from bright to annoyed. What is her problem?
“Have you considered the offer?”
“I thought I made it clear, we’ll settle for four and a half.” I roll my eyes. She tacked half a million on like it was an afterthought. Like I’d take that seriously.
“You’re not getting four and a half.”
“Then we have nothing to talk about. Goodbye—”
“Wait.” She doesn’t hang up. “What’s your real number?”
“Four and a half,” she says as though I’m slow. “If that’s all—”
“No. It’s not all.” Can she give me a second to think? I glance at her picture. “Are you free tonight?” the words tumble out before I can stop them.
“Why?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I asked.”
“Right. Goodbye then—”
“Wait—”
The line goes dead. I sit frozen for a beat, then slam the receiver down.
Infuriating.
Every damn thing about her. The flimsy dollar-store folders, that misplaced confidence.
This is probably her strategy. Waltz in, dazzle me with her pretty face. That’s how she wins, isn’t it? She flashes that smile and every man in the room trips over himself to help her.
And here I am, right on cue. Another fool playing into her game.
Then, a flicker of recollection: Martha had mentioned something Abigail was involved in. A Bar Association event. Was that tonight? A quick search confirms it. The email glares back at me from the screen.
My lips curl into a smile.
“Nice try, Miss Reed,” I whisper. “You’re beautiful, but not enough to cloud my judgment.”