Two Wrongs Don’t Make a Playwright (All or Nothing #3)
Chapter 1
"Call Me Maybe," Carly Rae Jepsen
Victoria
“Am I hallucinating? Or did you just agree to move from San Francisco to a small city in upstate New York to start a law firm with your ex-boyfriend?” Mallory Clarke sidled up beside me on the ugly bungalow’s front porch, her blonde hair glinting in the waning winter light.
I traced my name on the thick business card that her brother Alexander printed to pitch starting our own law firm, letters etched in copperplate: Victoria S. Blackstone, Esq., Founding Partner: Blackstone I made him that way.
I’d spent a decade cultivating him into a corporate sex icon, his image complimentary to mine so that when we eventually ousted our bosses to take over their firm, we would shine on the cover of Forbes together with the headline ‘Big Law’s First Couple.’
He would wear a flawlessly tailored suit with a cornflower tie to accentuate his eyes.
My blue sheath dress would match perfectly, a striking contrast to my red hair, and of course, I’d choose my lucky Jimmy Choos.
The article would showcase our law school introduction and our reputation for ruthless negotiations.
It would mention who I’m wearing—probably Armani, but the stylist might talk me into Chanel to embody those East Coast Jackie O vibes.
I would scoff in the interview that it doesn’t matter what brand I wear.
It does.
Growing up, I’d done my homework in the executive suites of my family’s Lower Manhattan real estate headquarters, under the auspices of mounted magazine covers featuring my grandfather, Richard Sinclair.
His judgmental glare monitored my studies from Harvard Business Review, Bloomsburg, Forbes, Money, The Economist …
he’d broken Fortune’s record by appearing six times.
Since I was 12, Richard—never ‘Grandpa’—planned for me to take the helm as his successor, preparing me to see my face on all those magazine covers.
When I left the company at 23, I vowed to earn that success apart from Richard’s legacy.
Researching business magazine covers revealed a clear trend: Almost exclusively white men in finance, law, real estate, or tech start-ups. Even with a push for diversity, like Fortune adding their annual Power 50 Women feature, women graced the cover less than a quarter of the time.
But I found a loophole.
That wall at headquarters featured one cover without Richard’s face: my parents on the cover of New York Magazine with the title “The Future of New York Real Estate.” Dad wore a plain suit and stoic expression.
Mom’s elbow rested on his shoulder, her red hair cascading over his shoulders, mouth tilted like she was seconds from breaking out into laughter.
Women like my mom were more likely to get the nod if they were half of a power couple. Harvard-educated corporate lawyer Michelle Robinson was unknown, but when she married Barack? Everyone recognized the Obamas.
So I orchestrated a power couple, with Alexander as my perfect counterpart. When people named power couples, we’d be in the top tier: William and Kate, George and Amal, John and Jackie … Alexander and Victoria.
Move over, Beckhams, there’s a new Victoria in town.
But he was neglecting his role in my plans.
Mallory lifted her thumb over her shoulder. “You’re cool that he asked you to move here, where you know almost nobody … and now he’s making out with his girlfriend?”
Through the window, Alexander’s arms wrapped around a beautiful woman’s slim waist.
Grace. His newest distraction.
When his father had a heart attack right before Christmas, Alexander flew home to his backwoods hometown of Saratoga Springs, about 200 miles north of New York City, and fell in love with the hospital social worker.
Of course he had, the sentimental fool.
She seemed smart, pretty, sweet … and honestly? Boring.
He returned to San Francisco devastated. His familiar irrational mood swings were accompanied by zoning out in meetings and emerging from his office with red-rimmed eyes. Three weeks later, starting this firm was his stupid romantic grand gesture to win her back.
I’d never seen him heartbroken, not even during our breakup. After seven years together, proposal imminent, I brought him to a family wedding.
The next day he dumped me.
I’d assumed after his temper tantrum, he would beg for my forgiveness, so I gave him the key to the apartment next door—which I’d bought to eventually take down a wall and expand my place.
He didn’t come back.
That was three years ago.
We focused on our careers, committed to 80+ hour weeks to earn our promotions, with the implied expectation that once we both had ‘Partner’ under our name, we would reunite.
Now that we had the title, he ruined my carefully laid plans by falling in love. He was willing to throw away his career—and my future—for her.
I swallowed the bile in my throat and waved a dismissive hand. “We’re business partners, he can do what he wants.”
Because I knew Alexander.
On the first day of law school ten years ago, I’d recognized my ambition reflected in his eyes. Other girls fawned over his good looks and charm, but I’d been the only one who outperformed him … and he hated coming in second.
Any minute now, he would blink as if waking from a dream, look around this boring upstate city and say, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’
But we wouldn’t return to San Francisco. I needed a fresh start, so I re-imagined our legal empire where I was born: New York City.
Mark my words: Within six months, we would be back in Manhattan, where I belonged.
“You don’t have to agree to this,” Mallory flicked the thick business card with her glittery pink fingernail. “Alex dragged you here to pitch you then put you on the spot. Total asshole move.”
She thought I needed rescuing. Cute. Had I ever been that naive?
Scanning my mental rolodex, I remembered Alexander’s complaints about her being flighty and feminist. I decided to reassure her by acting like I was letting her in on a juicy secret. I forced my shoulders to loosen into a casual pose, elbows leaning on the porch railing with a sighed confession.
“I’ve spent 20 years working in corporate offices, pounding against that glass ceiling, and all I got was broken nails.
” I flicked my wrist to display my classic French tips, then hitched a thumb over my shoulder.
“During that pitch, I realized something while your brother was rambling about poaching clients for revenge,” I said dryly, earning a bigger smile by disparaging his know-it-all tendencies.
I leaned in closer. “I’m tired of punching up to take a man’s spot. The only definitive way to come out on top is to build something from the ground up.”
The concern in her eyes was replaced by admiration. Good. I’d just become the founding partner of a newly minted firm and planned to grow it into a prestigious empire. I didn’t need anybody’s pity.
“Could you help me do that too?” Mallory asked, her big blue eyes brimming with a mix of doubt and hope.
I’d visited her yoga studio last month, when Alexander’s little crush derailed a merger negotiation.
As I’d stormed through her lobby to retrieve him, I couldn’t turn off my brain’s calculations to improve her sales.
“Send me the details,” I said to placate her.
I glanced over my shoulder at Alexander and his beautiful soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, then opened my mouth to tell my future sister-in-law that I was exactly where I needed to be.
We were interrupted by a baritone singing lyrics about throwing a wish in a well. Was everybody here hopelessly optimistic?
I straightened from my casual pose as a muscular man sprinted towards us, golden skin peeking out from the unlabeled brim of his winter hat. It was an unseasonably warm January night and he wore Nike compression pants that clung to his strong legs.
I knew almost nobody in this one-horse town, but I recognized the too-friendly teacher from the self-defense class I’d crashed last month when Alexander stopped returning my calls. His inhuman pace slowed, jogging in place as Mallory batted her lashes with a flirtatious wave. “Hey Cruz.”
Cruise? What the hell kind of ridiculous nickname was that?
Cruz nodded politely, immune to Mallory’s coy charm. Then his gaze flickered to me and his tongue darted over his bottom lip, showcasing a painfully bright smile. His voice dropped from baritone to bass. “Hey Cobrita.”
I dipped my chin, urging him to move along. As he continued his effortless run, I tore my eyes away from those tight pants clinging to his firm ass.
“What did he call you? Cobrita?” Mallory asked.
Growing up, I learned rudimentary Spanish from my family’s housekeeper to catch all the household gossip. Most guys saw my strawberry blonde hair and defaulted to ‘Ginger’ or ‘Red,’ but he’d called me ‘Little Copper.’
Surprisingly, I didn’t hate it.
“I have no idea what it means,” I lied, covertly admiring his departing form.
He twisted without breaking stride, winking as he sang loudly about missing me before he met me, which was complete nonsense … but annoyingly catchy.
Mallory teased, “Guess I’ll introduce you to more than just work connections.”
My father’s towncar pulled up to the curb to return me to civilization in Manhattan. I removed Alexander’s spiral-bound business plan from my Hermes bag, planning to use the drive to improve his limited ideas. “Not interested. I’ve got an empire to build.”