1. Tarryn
Tarryn
Present Day…
T he gleaming chrome and glass lobby of Blake Financial seems to whisper important people do important things here as I stride through the entrance.
Today marks my two-year attorney work anniversary at the firm, a milestone that still feels surreal some mornings.
I catch my reflection in the polished elevator doors—tailored charcoal suit, sleek chignon, the carefully constructed armor of a woman who belongs in these hallways of power.
"Happy work anniversary, Ms. Wells," Martin, the security guard, says as I flash my badge. His smile carries the genuine warmth that's made him a fixture in my morning routine.
"Thanks, Martin. How's Layla doing with the college applications?" I adjust my portfolio, making sure the Westfield contract is properly aligned inside.
"Driving me and her mother crazy, but that's teenagers for you." He shakes his head, pride evident beneath the exasperation. "She's got her heart set on Northwestern."
"Smart girl," I reply. “Don’t forget to tell her that when it’s time for her personal statement, I’m more than happy to help coach her on it.” Martin was kind to me on my first day, when I was so nervous I forgot my badge in the cab.
“You got it!” He waves me on as I wish him a good day, catching a brief reflection of myself in a lobby mirror.
I straighten my blazer as I walk toward the elevator bank, savoring the confidence it gives me.
Two years ago, fresh out of law school, I'd felt like an impostor in my clearance rack suits. Now, everything I wear is still mostly from the sale and clearance racks, but it’s carefully selected to project exactly who I am: Tarryn Wells, rising star attorney, meticulous and thorough, someone who doesn't make mistakes.
The memory of my law school graduation flashes unexpectedly—standing on the stage, diploma in hand, eyes automatically scanning the crowd for a familiar face before I could catch myself.
Even then, with everything I'd accomplished, some small part of me had been looking for Jackson's proud smile. Though we’d long since decided that with all of the hopeful dreams and whispered promises to each other, even we couldn’t make it work.
Time and distance did exactly what I feared it would do—ripped us apart.
The weakness had annoyed me then. It still does.
The elevator doors open with a soft ding, revealing my friend Zoe already inside, coffee in hand, looking impeccable as always.
"There she is." Zoe grins, her crimson lipstick perfect despite the coffee cup. "The two-year survivor. Congratulations, Counselor."
"Thanks," I say, stepping in beside her. "Though, 'survivor' makes it sound like I've been stranded on a desert island, fighting for my life."
"Please. The Blake Financial legal department makes Survivor look like a day at the spa." She takes a sip of her coffee, leaving a perfect lip print on the rim. "Speaking of which, have you heard about the new hotshot joining the team today?"
I press the button for our floor. "No. Should I have?"
"Oh, honey." She leans in conspiratorially. "Word is he's being fast-tracked. Miguel is personally shepherding him around. They poached him from some Indianapolis firm where he apparently worked miracles with their negotiation strategy."
A small knot forms in my stomach. I've been working my ass off for two years, carefully positioning myself for the junior counsel position that should be opening up next quarter. The last thing I need is some hotshot parachuting in and cutting in line.
"Fast-tracked for what exactly?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
Zoe shrugs, too casual to be genuine. "Not sure, but Denise in HR said Miguel mentioned something about 'fresh blood in the leadership pipeline.'"
The knot tightens. The leadership pipeline is where I'm supposed to be.
"Well, I'm sure he's very qualified," I say diplomatically, though my mind is already calculating how this might affect my carefully plotted career trajectory.
"Supposedly gorgeous too," Zoe adds with a sigh. "Not that I'm looking. I learned my lesson with Daniel."
I wince in sympathy. Zoe's disastrous six-month affair with a partner had ended with her being passed over for partnership and him getting a corner office. The Blake rumor mill had been brutal.
"Office romances are a career suicide pact," I say, repeating what has become my personal mantra. "And one person always has the parachute."
"Preach." Zoe raises her coffee cup in salute as the elevator stops on our floor.
As we step out, I catch fragments of conversation from Miguel's open office door.
"—credentials are exceptional," he's saying to someone I can't see. "The Wellington negotiation alone would have been enough to get my attention."
I feel a stab of anxiety. I've spent two years building a reputation for meticulousness, for never missing a detail, for being the attorney who catches the time bomb in Paragraph 37, Subsection C.
But I know what the partners sometimes whisper—that I'm too cautious, too detail-focused, not dynamic enough in negotiations.
"I need to drop these files off," I tell Zoe, gesturing toward Miguel's office.
"Good luck. And try not to scare off the new guy with your intimidating competence." She winks before sashaying down the hallway toward her office.
I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and head toward Miguel's door, only to pause when I hear more of his conversation.
"Your approach to the Wellington case was exactly what we're looking for," Miguel continues, his voice carrying that particular tone of impressed I've been working two years to earn. "Bold, innovative, but still legally sound."
Whoever he's talking to murmurs something too low for me to catch. I should walk away—eavesdropping is beneath me—but my feet remain rooted to the carpet as Miguel's next words drift out.
"That's why I think you'd be perfect for the junior counsel track. We need fresh perspectives, someone who can see beyond the standard playbook."
My stomach drops. Junior counsel. My position. The one I've been methodically working toward since the day I joined Blake Financial. And he's dangling it in front of some newcomer who hasn't put in the time, hasn't earned the right to even be considered.
I retreat silently, my mind racing. This changes everything. I need to make an impression with the Westfield presentation—not just a good one, but a career-defining one. I need Miguel to remember why he hired me, why I've been his go-to for the most complex contract work.
In my office, I throw myself into final preparations for the Westfield meeting.
The contract has been my baby for weeks now, and I've reviewed every comma, every clause, until I could recite it in my sleep.
But now I need to do more than just be thorough—I need to be memorable.
Dynamic. The kind of attorney Miguel sees potential in, not just reliability.
When I finally walk into the conference room at nine a.m. sharp, I'm armored in confidence and wearing my killer pencil skirt that cost more than my first month's rent in Chicago.
The Westfield team is already seated, Mr. Westfield himself at the head of the table.
He's a notoriously difficult client who has sent three previous attorneys crying from the room.
"Ms. Wells," he acknowledges with the barest nod, not bothering to stand. "Let's see if you've managed to sort out the mess Johnson left behind."
I smile, unruffled by his brusqueness. "I think you'll find we've done more than sort it out, Mr. Westfield. We've completely restructured the approach."
For the next forty-five minutes, I walk them through my revisions to their contract.
I've memorized every detail, anticipating questions before they're asked, highlighting potential issues others might have missed.
When I explain the indemnification clause restructuring, I see the exact moment Mr. Westfield's expression shifts from skepticism to interest.
"This section here," I say, highlighting a paragraph on the screen, "is where most attorneys would settle for standard language.
But I noticed your subsidiary operations in Singapore would leave you exposed under those terms. So I've created a custom provision that shields you while still remaining enforceable under both jurisdictions. "
Mr. Westfield leans forward, actually studying the document now instead of just waiting for me to finish. "Show me how that works with the parent company guarantees."
I flip to the relevant section, feeling a flutter of victory. I've hooked him.
By the time I conclude the presentation, he's actually smiling—something the associates who prepped me said they'd never witnessed in a contract meeting.
"That's exactly the kind of thinking we need," he says, nodding appreciatively. "I've never seen someone catch these details before they become problems."
"Details are my specialty, Mr. Westfield," I reply, allowing myself a small smile. "I believe they're where the most significant risks—and opportunities—often hide."
The meeting concludes with handshakes all around, a rarity with the Westfield team. As they file out, Miguel catches my eye from across the room, giving me an approving nod that sends a wave of relief through me.
Maybe I haven't lost ground. Guess I'm still in the game after all.
As I settle back in my office, I fire off a quick text to my mom.
Me: How did Dad’s appointment go?
She replies quickly.
Mom: More stable than last month, meds adjusted. Tell Miguel he’s keeping you too busy to call.
I smile at her joke but the guilt tugs at my chest. I send a smiley face, then Venmo her a hundred bucks for his copay.
It’s not much, but it helps. I exhale slowly, the tension in my shoulders easing just a little.
I won’t say it out loud, but getting this promotion? It’s not just for me. It’s for them.