15. Tarryn
Tarryn
I feel Christine's eyes on me again.
This time she's standing near the conference room door, pretending to review documents with a paralegal. But her gaze keeps flickering toward me and Jackson as we discuss the Westfield contract revisions. It's become a constant—her watchful presence whenever we're together.
"Did you review that clause?" Jackson asks, voice professionally neutral even as his fingers brush mine when passing the document.
The brief contact sends electricity racing up my arm, but I keep my expression impassive. I'm getting good at this particular performance—the careful dance of maintaining exact professional distance while my body hums with awareness of him.
"I did." I slide my notes across the table, making sure our hands don't touch again. "I've highlighted the sections that need tightening."
Christine drifts closer, her movement deliberately casual. The surveillance is becoming suffocating.
"Don't look now," Jackson murmurs, his voice low enough that only I can hear, "but our watchdog is circling again."
I don't need to look. I can feel her presence like a physical weight against my skin. "Third time today," I reply, keeping my eyes on the contract. "She was outside my office when you dropped off the Harding files this morning."
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Anyone else would miss it, but I've spent months cataloging his micro-expressions, learning to read the tension in his shoulders, the slight flare of his nostrils when he's frustrated.
"We should wrap this up," I say, gathering my papers. "I have a client call in fifteen minutes."
Jackson nods, his hand retreating to his side of the table as Christine glides into the conference room, her timing too perfect to be coincidental.
"How's the revision coming along?" she asks, smiling. "Miguel mentioned he'd like an update by end of day."
"We're on schedule," Jackson replies smoothly.
Christine's gaze flicks between us. "Wonderful teamwork.”
The way she lingers on the word makes my skin crawl. I stand, clutching my portfolio against my chest like armor. "If you'll excuse me," I say, "I have a call with Westfield's CFO."
As I walk past her, Christine's perfectly manicured hand brushes my arm, a gesture that appears friendly but feels like a threat. "We should grab coffee soon, Tarryn."
I force a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "I'll check my calendar."
The office has mostly emptied by nine p.m., the hallways dim and silent as I review contract language for tomorrow's client meeting.
I've started working later, partly to avoid rush hour but mostly to minimize my time around Christine.
The quiet after-hours atmosphere has become a sanctuary of sorts.
I stretch, rolling my neck to release the tension that's settled there after hours of hunching over documents. The sound of voices drifts through my partially open door—Christine and someone else, their conversation carrying in the empty hallway.
"…might seem exciting, but they're professional suicide—especially for women."
Christine's voice is clear, deliberately pitched to carry. I freeze, pen suspended above the page.
"Look at what happened to Rebecca in tax law," she continues. "One office romance later, and she's been passed over for partnership twice while her former lover was promoted."
"That seems unfair," replies a younger female voice—Sarah, I think, one of the new associates.
"That's how it works," Christine says, her tone hardening. "Men bounce back from these scandals. Women become defined by them. The partners claim they're progressive, but when personal matters affect professional spaces, women always pay the higher price."
My stomach twists. There's no doubt this performance is for my benefit; her office is on the opposite side of the floor. She has no reason to be walking past this conference room with Sarah at this hour.
"The worst part," Christine continues, her voice now directly outside my door, "is watching promising female attorneys throw away everything they've worked for because they can't separate their personal desires from professional judgment."
My cheeks burn at the targeted warning. Christine knows exactly what she's doing, crafting her message to needle my deepest insecurities. I force myself to stare at my computer screen, pretending I haven't heard every calculated word.
I'm still mulling over Christine’s little performance the next morning when she appears at my office door, two coffee cups in hand and a smile that looks as fake as her nails.
"I thought you could use this," she says, setting one cup on my desk. "You've been working late hours on the Westfield contract."
The gesture is so unexpectedly friendly that I'm momentarily disarmed. "Thank you," I say, caution threading through my voice. "That's… thoughtful."
"May I?" She gestures to the chair across from my desk, not waiting for an answer before settling into it, crossing her legs with elegant precision. "I feel we got off on the wrong foot, Tarryn."
I take a careful sip of the coffee. "Is that so?"
She leans forward, her expression modulating into something that would appear genuinely concerned to anyone who didn't know better.
“I know I probably came across a little strong with my warnings but I'm just looking out for promising female attorneys.
We need to protect each other in this environment. "
The calculated sincerity in her voice makes my skin crawl. I set down the coffee cup, keeping my expression neutral. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not sure what you mean.”
She narrows her gaze. “Are you sure you really understand?”
I take a small sip of coffee, masking my suspicion. “About?”
She offers a polished smile. “About what it means to be a woman in a place like this.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Meaning?”
Christine leans forward, voice dipped in sincerity.
“I know how easy it is to get comfortable when things are going well. Recognition, important cases, maybe even a little attention from people who suddenly see your value.” Her eyes never leave mine.
“But just remember, comfort is a luxury we can’t afford. ”
I set the cup down, spine straightening. “If this is about performance, I’ve exceeded every metric since I started.”
“Oh, I’m not questioning your abilities,” she says smoothly. “You’re smart. Methodical. Respected.” A pause. “It’s precisely why I wanted to remind you how quickly those things can disappear the moment someone decides you’ve stepped out of line.”
Something in my chest tightens. "I wasn't aware I had.”
Christine offers a half shrug. “Neither was Amanda Chen, until she did.”
I stiffen. There it is again. Not a full threat, but just enough of one to tighten the noose.
A smile suddenly breaks across her lips.
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.
God knows I’ve navigated my fair share of glass floors in heels.
Just…” She smooths her skirt as she stands.
“Be smart. Be a little more invisible. Especially now. Anyway, I need to get back to work.” She walks toward the door.
“I know you think you're careful, Tarryn. But trust me—someone is always watching.”
The warning hangs in the air between us as she turns to leave. At the doorway, she pauses, glancing back with what appears to be genuine regret. "Trust me when I say again that the firm will always protect men like Hayes. Women like us? We're replaceable.”
I sit in the silence that follows, the coffee still warm beside me, untouched now. She never mentioned Jackson by name. She didn’t have to. The message was clear: if things go sideways, no one will be there to catch me. Not Miguel. Not the firm. Certainly not Jackson.
And the worst part is, she might be right.
But as I stare at the coffee Christine brought, a gesture of female solidarity wrapped around a venomous warning, I wonder if I've already crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.
The copy room hums with the steady rhythm of the machine as I collate presentations for tomorrow's client meeting. The mindless task allows my thoughts to drift, circling back to Christine's warnings and the growing complication of my feelings for Jackson.
The door opens behind me, and I know it's him before I turn, the subtle scent of his cologne, the particular cadence of his footsteps, the way the air seems to charge with electricity when we're in the same space.
"Thought I'd find you here," Jackson says, his voice low and intimate in the small room. "You disappeared after the strategy meeting."
I keep my back to him, focusing on collating the papers with methodical precision. "I needed to prepare these for tomorrow's presentation."
He moves closer, not touching me but near enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "You've been avoiding me this morning. Something to do with Christine coming out of your office earlier?"
The observation, accurate as always, makes me stiffen. "I've been busy."
"Tarryn." Just my name, spoken in that particular way that makes it impossible to maintain my defenses. I turn reluctantly, finding myself trapped between his body and the copy machine, the small space suddenly feeling impossibly intimate.
His blue eyes search mine, concern evident in the slight furrow between his brows. "What did she say to you?"
"Nothing I didn't already know," I reply, my voice catching slightly as I become acutely aware of our proximity. "That office relationships are career suicide, especially for women."
"She's just trying to manipulate you. Using your career ambitions to control you. Besides, we both know she’s an unethical bitch who threatened blackmail."
"That doesn't make her wrong," I counter, my back pressing against the edge of the copy machine as I try to maintain some distance between us. It's futile. My body betrays me, leaning toward him even as my mind screams caution.