Chapter One
Within minutes of meeting him, there were three surprising things about Santa Claus that Somer Henshaw learned to be true.
One: the man was jacked. Forget having a belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly. No, this Santa was sculpted like he’d just stepped out of a Marvel origin story. Rock-hard abs, boulder shoulders, and biceps that strained the seams of the crisp designer suit he’d poured himself into.
Two: Santa had an ironclad prenuptial agreement, because apparently nothing said “Merry Christmas” quite like a legally binding reminder that love, much like milk left out overnight with a plate of cookies, had an expiration date.
And three, and the most inconvenient point of all to Somer herself: Santa had an attractive attorney.
It wasn’t even meant to be her case. Not really. Hugo Crags had waltzed into her office a few days ago, his Filofax under one arm and a bulging manila file under the other, both of which he dropped onto her desk with a weary and put upon sigh.
Somer had looked up in exasperation, and not because she didn’t like her boss — she did, she really did, and anyone else who’d heard his rendition of Kelly Clarkson’s ‘My Life Would Suck Without You’ at the annual staff Christmas karaoke night would like him, too — but because she was working flat out on the Harris versus Dobson case and didn’t have time for any interruptions.
“Unless that’s a manila folder full of chewable coffee, you need to get it off my desk immediately,” Somer warned, and Hugo laughed, but it was laced with a nervous edge she intuitively picked up on.
“It’s a new case,” Hugo told her, sinking into the chair across from her own. “An interesting one.”
“They’re all interesting,” Somer replied flatly, and there it was again from Hugo, that nervous laugh.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But this one is exceptionally interesting. A one in a million lawsuit.”
Somer leaned back, crossing her arms over her chest. “If that’s your lure, I’m not biting.
I’m busy enough, Hu. Too busy. This is London, the divorce capital of the world, remember?
More than that, it’s three weeks to Christmas and my clients want to be rid of their cheating and no good husbands by the twentieth so they can sing ‘Good King Wenceslas’ without vomiting into their mulled wine. ”
“I know you’re busy.” Hugo gestured to her paperwork-covered desk and laptop, which was precariously sitting open on a legal text. “But like I said, this is a one in a million case. I think you should take a look at it, if nothing else.”
“Why me?” Somer asked, abruptly suspicious. “Kiarli is the head divorce lawyer here, not me. If this case is so exceptional, get her to look at it.”
Hugo reddened, and realization hit Somer hard.
“Ah,” she remarked slowly. “She’s already looked at it and turned you down, hasn’t she? I’m your second choice.”
Hugo hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not exactly. Kiarli, uh, didn’t turn it down.”
“No? Give it to her then.”
“I would, but I can’t,” Hugo replied, matter-of-fact. “She’s conflicted. She can’t take it.”
Somer raised an eyebrow. “Kiarli? Conflicted?”
“It happens.”
“I know, but . . .” Somer thought for a moment. “I’ve worked with Kiarli for years, and it's never happened before.”
“Well, now it has,” Hugo stated, in an oddly short tone that made Somer sit up instantly.
“Okay. So, what’s her conflict—?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Abruptly, Hugo stood. He gestured to the file on Somer’s desk. “What matters now is who can take the case instead, and I think you should.”
Somer narrowed her eyes at Hugo’s words and their crisp and polished tone. It was his I’ve already decided how this conversation ends voice. He’d probably spent ten minutes in front of a mirror perfecting the thoughtful nods and tie adjustments before coming to her.
“Me?” she replied slowly. “Did you ask Kiarli about giving me this case?”
Hugo froze for half a second. It was subtle — barely a hitch, barely a flicker — and most people would have missed it. Not Somer. She saw it and filed it under guilty.
Hugo cleared his throat, smoothing a hand down his tie.
“I did,” he admitted.
“And did she think I should take it?”
“Well . . .” Hugo exhaled through his nose, awkward and embarrassed.
“Hu . . .”
“Okay, fine,” Hugo admitted, “she didn’t. In fact, she point-blank told me not to give it to you.”
Somer stared at him.
“Not because you’re not talented,” he carried on hurriedly. “You are. Of course you are. You’re one of our best. But she . . . just didn’t think you were ready.”
“Oh,” Somer said simply, keeping her expression perfectly neutral. “I see.”
She didn’t let her voice shake. Didn’t let anything show.
Didn’t allow even a flicker of disappointment to cross her features, even though she was breaking a little inside.
Kiarli Davies was her mentor. Ruthless, brilliant and unnervingly glamorous, Kiarli was the benchmark for excellence at Cavendish, Crags and Clerk LLP.
A legend in their firm, Kiarli was the woman Somer had tried to model herself after, piece by piece, until she’d reshaped entire parts of her professional identity to mirror her professional idol.
Stupidly, somewhere along the way, Somer had also started thinking of Kiarli as a friend.
Clearly not.
“But,” Hugo rushed on, lifting both hands as if warding off the disappointment radiating from her, “I’m the partner here.
I make the final call, and I think you’re ready, Somer.
More than ready.” He nodded towards the manila folder on her desk.
“You’re the best associate we have. And this case needs the best.”
Somer managed a slow nod, but her throat felt too tight; her lungs too small for the breath she wanted to take. She wasn’t stupid. Somer knew Kiarli was protective, strategic, and cut-throat when necessary. But she’d also believed, quietly and privately, that Kiarli believed in her.
Apparently, she didn’t believe in her enough.
“Understood,” she said softly, her voice controlled.
Hugo’s voice became firm. “Forget Kiarli. I want you to do this. I want you to give it a shot.”
“Thanks, Hu.” Somer tried to push Kiarli and her stinging assessment of her not being ready to the back of her mind. “But I’ve been pulling seventeen-hour days this month and have been sleeping on my office couch. I’ve got too much work as it is, and I’m not about to add to it.”
Hugo gave a little grunt of amusement, unfazed by her protest. “I know you have. You’re the only one here who can outwork Kiarli, and that’s saying something.”
“Flattery,” Somer replied dryly, “will get you nowhere.”
He ignored her, tapping a finger against the manila folder. “You’re right. It won’t. But maybe this will. Do you remember Piper versus Von Amerling?”
At that, Somer froze. Anyone who was anyone in their firm remembered Piper versus Von Amerling and how bitterly that divorce had played out in the courtroom. It still made her wince, even now, to think of how badly their client had been let down.
“We should have won that one,” she replied. “I still can’t believe the judge ruled against us. One technicality and that bastard walked away with everything, including custody of the children. Piper controlled the narrative of that case as much as he controlled his poor wife.”
Hugo shook his head. “No,” he said. “Piper didn’t control anything. His lawyer did it all for him. Reuben Winter.”
Somer inhaled deeply. She knew the name well enough; everyone in their firm did. She still remembered reading the judgement outcome and wondering how on earth anyone had managed to make Mr Piper look like the more credible parent.
Reuben Winter had been the answer.
“He’s the toughest in his field,” Hugo carried on.
“Brilliant, but hard as nails. He doesn’t argue a case so much as destroy it piece by piece, and he doesn’t care who gets hurt along the way, so long as his client is the only one left standing by the end of it.
I mean, I suppose you could call it professionalism—”
“Really? Because I can think of a much less flattering word,” Somer interjected, and Hugo frowned. “Don’t look at me like that,” she carried on. “You know I don’t have time for lawyers who treat children like collateral damage in a divorce.”
Hugo nodded. “I know. Look, this case—” he tapped the folder with his finger — “has echoes of Piper v von Amerling in it. Strong ones.”
Somer leaned forward. “Really?”
“Yes. Only this case has a kind of magical twist. Oh—” Abruptly, Hugo cleared his throat. “I should also add, there would be some serious implications if this case . . . wasn’t resolved tidily.”
Somer’s eyes narrowed. “Implications for whom?”
Hugo cleared his throat again. “Well, uh, the world.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hu . . .”
He nudged the folder towards her. “All I ask is that you take it home and look at it. Have a think. Make some notes. I told you, this is an important case. I want you on it.”
Somer hesitated, eyeing the folder like it might bite.
She could practically feel it radiating intrigue, humming with the kind of legal challenge that made her blood sing despite herself.
She reached out, fingers brushing the worn edge of the folder.
“Fine. I’ll read it. No, I’ll skim it,” she corrected herself, shooting him a warning look. “No more than that.”
“That’s all I ask.” Hugo nodded, putting his hands into his pockets. “Skim it through and then let me know what you think in the morning. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” She sighed, resigned now to the added work. “You’re lucky I like you, Hu.”
He hesitated, studying her for a moment. “Thanks. But Somer . . . go home, okay? Sleep in your own bed for once. You’ve been living in this office. It’s not healthy.”
She gave a faint, wry smile. “You worry too much.”
“Someone has to.” The rest of Hugo’s sentence went unsaid, but Somer heard it anyway: now that Anthony’s gone.
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t, frozen, thinking of Anthony. Immediately, she considered how to react, wondering how to relay the exact shade of sad her boss was probably expecting. Before Somer could school her face into an acceptable version of misery, however, Hugo cleared his throat.
“I mean it, Somer.” He picked up his Filofax from her desk. “Go home.”
When Hugo left, silence folded back around her, reliable and heavy, almost comforting in its familiarity. Somer looked at the stacks of files and the couch she’d been using as a bed. She glanced at the glowing monitor and the half-empty coffee mug beside it.
The coffee mug. For a moment, her gaze lingered on it and she picked it up, turning it slowly in her hands, her thumb tracing the printed words on the side. For a moment, the office around her seemed to blur at the edges.
She remembered different hands passing it across a kitchen counter covered in toast crumbs and paint samples. Long fingers brushing hers for the briefest second. A rich male voice, warm with laughter as he’d nodded towards the stupid joke stamped on the ceramic.
See you later, litigator.
The memory hit with a brutal and disorienting force, and grief rose sharply within her, hollowing her out from the inside.
It was an acute misery born of an absence that still stunned her, and for a moment it pressed down upon her so hard she could barely breathe.
She’d brought the mug from home to the office years ago, hoping it would act as a reminder never to lose focus again.
To keep her mind on her job, and nothing else.
Most of the time it worked. But now . . .
now all she could see were his fingers wrapped around the handle, and hear his laugh as it echoed across walls they never had time to paint.
Somer shut her eyes.
No. She ordered herself. Don’t go back there. Don’t think about him. Don’t miss him.
With deliberate care, she set the mug back on the desk, squared the nearest pile of papers, and forced in a slow breath.
Then another. The mug was just a mug, she reminded herself.
He was gone, but so what? He’d been gone for three years now.
Not that it should even matter to her. Not now. Not after all this time.
Not after what he did to her.
With a sigh, she gathered up the folder that Hugo had left her, solid and weighty. She glanced at the clock, noting with shock that it read 10:47 p.m. Maybe Hugo was right. Maybe she should go home.
The thought didn’t fill her with joy, though.
Home wasn’t much more than a word these days — an empty house and a fridge full of takeaway containers, a microwave meal for one waiting in the freezer, and memories she’d rather not unpack.
The silence there was heavier than the office ever was.
At least the office had purpose. At least there, the things that kept her awake at night were somebody else’s problems.
With a sigh, Somer glanced at her phone. There was an alert for an unread message, and wearily, she swiped to read it.
Margaret: Tried calling you, but you didn’t answer. Paul and I are so looking forward to having you at Christmas, dear. Just checking if you’d prefer turkey or goose. Call me back when you get this.
Somer swallowed, her throat feeling thick. She didn’t want to think about Christmas, or Anthony’s parents. Her gaze drifted back to the folder in her hands. It was clearly a significant case if a partner had taken charge of it.
“Skim it,” she murmured to herself. “Just a quick skim.”
Pushing all thoughts of her empty, quiet house out of her mind, Somer slipped into her chair once again. She opened the folder, and forcing back a yawn, began to read.
To Be Continued . . .