Chapter 49
David
“Good morning, Mr. Kingsley.”
I nearly come out of my skin. Almost drop the coffee I’m carrying. Hot liquid sloshes against the lid as I stop dead three steps inside the suite and stare at the source of the voice.
A woman sits behind our front desk.
Our front desk.
Which, as of close of business Friday, was decorative furniture and a dying peace lily Caleb keeps insisting is “recoverable.”
I blink at her.
She smiles with professional brightness. “Would you like me to take that for you?”
I look behind me like there might be another law office hidden in the hallway that I’ve wandered into by mistake. There is not. Same frosted glass. Same newly mounted brass lettering. Same smell of fresh paint and ambition barely covering panic.
“No,” I say, because it’s all I’ve got.
The woman—mid-thirties maybe, immaculate blouse, sleek ponytail, the kind of posture that suggests she has never once misplaced a paperclip—tilts her head. “Of course. Mr. Kingsley is already in his office.”
I narrow my eyes. “Caleb?”
Her smile doesn’t falter. “Is there another one?”
“Frustratingly, yes.”
I head for Caleb’s office with my coffee in a death grip, too tired and under-caffeinated to process surprise staffing decisions.
Michaela slept through the night, which is more than I managed.
Leonie arrived before any of us were awake and was already making her a mountain of “bravery pancakes” when I left for work.
The last thing I heard was Michaela informing Nora that the syrup drizzle pattern needed to be structurally sound or the blueberries made no sense.
My home life is good, at least. In fact, I’d like to go back there right now.
Caleb’s office door is half open. He’s inside, jacket off, shirtsleeves crisp, phone to his ear, looking like a man who was born in a conference room and never left.
“Yes,” he says into the receiver, impatient and smooth. “I’m aware of the filing deadline. I’m also aware that your client has confused ‘litigation strategy’ with ‘public tantrum,’ and the court tends to notice.”
He spots me in the doorway and lifts one finger without missing a beat.
I step in anyway.
Caleb swivels in his chair, gives me a narrow-eyed once-over, and covers the phone with his palm. “You look terrible.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“You’re late.”
“It’s eight-fifteen.”
“You’re still late emotionally.” He uncovers the receiver. “No, not you. My brother. Continue.”
I walk farther into the office and shut the door behind me, because apparently whatever is happening at our front desk is also happening in here. Caleb’s office has had an . . . upgrade over the weekend.
I stop in the middle of the room and stare.
When I entered into this partnership with my brother, I did so with the understanding that the seed money we both put into the business was fifty-fifty.
Caleb’s bank account runs rings around mine, and while I’m not struggling for cash, my accounts are healthy enough that I have no interest in being quietly subsidized by my obscenely rich younger brother like some kind of legal trust-fund mascot.
Which means the room should still look like it did on Friday: competent, functional, and one motivational poster away from tax-prep purgatory.
It does not.
The rug is new. The credenza is new. The lamp in the corner looks imported from a Scandinavian monastery for executives. Even the chairs look like they were handcrafted by people who use words like grain story.
I turn. “What the hell is this?”
Caleb says into the phone, “I’ll call you back when I have fewer interruptions and more patience.” He hangs up, sets the phone down, and follows my line of sight.
“It’s furniture.”
“You know what I mean.”
“You’re upset by lumbar support?”
I set my coffee on the edge of his desk before I throw it at him. “We had an agreement.”
“We still do.”
“No, we had a very clear understanding,” I say, keeping my voice low by force. “I put in what you put in. You don’t get to decide over a weekend that Kingsley & Kingsley is now being bankrolled by a member of the Forbes list.”
Caleb leans back in his chair, unbothered. “Relax. I didn’t alter the capital structure.”
“Then explain the receptionist.”
“Her name is Talia.”
“I don’t care if her name is Beyoncé. Explain why she exists.”
His mouth twitches. “Because clients prefer not to walk into a law office that looks like two men recently survived a liquidation sale.”
I stare at him.
He folds his hands over his stomach. “Also, before you get uppity at me, go look in your office—this wasn’t me.”
I stare at him a second longer, trying to decide whether homicide counts as a deductible business expense.
Then I turn and head for my office.
The hallway is the same hallway. Fresh drywall, too-bright track lighting, one abstract print Caleb insisted made us look “established” and I insisted made us look like a boutique dentist. But by the time I hit my door, I know two things.
One: Caleb is enjoying this far too much.
Two: he’s not lying.
Because my office door is open, and inside it is very much not the office I left on Friday.
For a second, I stand there.
My desk is the same desk, but someone’s replaced the sad guest chairs with leather ones that don’t look like they came free with a gym membership.
The filing cabinet that used to list slightly to the left is gone.
In its place is a low walnut credenza. There’s a proper rug underfoot.
A tall plant in the corner that’s definitely alive.
Framed certificates are actually on the wall instead of propped against it in a stack that said yes, I’m licensed, no, I haven’t emotionally committed to hanging evidence of it.
On the desk, propped against a crystal paperweight that also wasn’t there on Friday, is a cream notecard.
You’re welcome. — D
“Dominic did this?” I ask Caleb, who’s leaning against my door frame looking smug.
“And Jenna. She took care of the hiring. Supposedly there’s more staff to come.”
I close my eyes for a second.
Of course Dominic treats professional boundaries like decorative fencing, and of course Jenna—God help us all—would execute the hostile takeover with administrative precision and onboarding documents.
I open my eyes and look around my office like it might explain itself if I glare hard enough. It does not. It just sits there—expensive, competent, and infuriatingly functional.
“Did you authorize any of this?”
Caleb just chuckles. “Nope. Not a thing.”
I turn to him. “You’re taking this very calmly for a man who claims not to be involved. How did they get in here?”
“Logan?” He shrugs.
“You’re enjoying this.”
“A great deal.”
I rub a hand over my face. I’m already tired, and it’s only Monday.
“This is insane.”
I pull out my phone and dial Dominic.
He answers on the second ring. “Before you say anything—”
“What did you do?”
“I improved your professional environment. You should thank me.”
“Dominic. You redecorated my office.”
“I had my designer redecorate your office. And Caleb’s. And the reception area. And the kitchen, which, David, I need you to know smelled like something died in the microwave and was never recovered.”
“When did this happen?”
“Over the weekend. Obviously.”
“You were out with us at the club this weekend.”
“I can manage a social life, David. Plus, I didn’t do it with my own two hands—I paid people a bunch of money.”
“I can’t accept this.”
“You already have. Talia started at eight. She’s been answering your phones for forty minutes. She’s terrifyingly competent. Jenna vetted her personally, along with two paralegals who start next week. Supposedly Eddie sobbed with relief when he found out.”
“How did you get Jenna involved in this?”
“I told her what I was doing, and she offered to source reliable staff because she knows what professional infrastructure looks like and I know what professional wallpaper looks like. We complement each other.”
“Does she know you think that?”
“She’s aware of my position. She’s choosing to engage with it selectively.”
I sit in the new chair. It’s good. Excellent back support. The kind of chair that makes you sit straighter without being asked.
“Dominic. This is too much.”
“It’s not. And here’s why.” His voice shifts—the bravado pulling back enough to show the architecture underneath, the way it does when Dominic’s about to say something he means.
“I’d like to send clients your way. People who need contracts reviewed, corporate structuring, the stuff you and Caleb eat for breakfast. I can’t do that while maintaining my professionalism if your reception desk is unmanned and the phone is ringing into the void. I’d lose credibility. Not you. Me.”
“You don’t need to refer clients to me, Dom.”
“I want to send clients to you, David. What I need is for you to look like what you are. Which is two of the sharpest lawyers in Chicago operating out of a firm that should reflect that, not undercut it. I didn’t do this as charity. I did it as an investment.”
I’m quiet a moment. Through the window, the city goes about its morning. Talia’s voice carries faintly from reception—professional, warm, answering a call that would have gone to voicemail forty-eight hours ago.
“You’re asking me to accept a significant financial outlay from a friend.”
“I’m asking you to let me help. The way you’d help me if I were drowning, except in this case the drowning is administrative and the life raft has good taste.” He pauses. “Just say yes, David. Be the Caleb to my Bennett.”
The reference lands. Bennett and Caleb—Mercer Capital and Kingsley & Kingsley, the handshake partnership that’s existed since before they graduated Harvard together.
I lean back in the chair and stare at the ceiling like it might produce a legal doctrine covering friends who ambush you with infrastructure.
On the other end of the line, Dominic waits exactly three seconds before deciding silence is a solvable problem.
“David?”
“I hate how persuasive that was.”
“That’s not a no.”
“It’s not a yes either.”
“It’s a lawyer’s foreplay version of yes.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m not having this conversation with you while Caleb is somewhere nearby capable of hearing the phrase lawyer foreplay.”
From the doorway, Caleb says, “Too late.”
Dominic cackles directly into my ear.
“I’m hanging up now,” I tell him.
“Take the win, counselor. And tell Talia she gets full authority to glare at you if you try to answer your own phones.”
The older version of me would have billed Dominic back for every dollar of this—square the ledger, cancel the favor, keep the structure lean and owed to no one.
The instinct rises and then, deliberately, I set it aside.
The firm is better with the help. My daughter is better with the help.
My life is better with the help. It turns out that being indebted to friends is not the failure my father taught me it was.
It is, in several directions at once, the actual point.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you’re deeply loved by all of us. Different problem.”
He hangs up before I can respond.
I lower the phone and look at Caleb.
“Do not,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You’re thinking several things very loudly.”
He pushes off the door frame and strolls into my office, glancing around like he’s considering whether the plant and I are professionally compatible. “For the record, I agree with him.”
“Of course you do.”
“You know why?”
“Because you’re insufferable?”
“Because he’s right.” Caleb drops into one of the new guest chairs and nods once, testing it. “Also, this one is much better than the old chair that felt like punishment for childhood sins.”
I lean back and exhale through my nose. “That’s the part I can’t decide whether to admire or litigate. This isn’t just Dominic buying furniture because he has too much money and poor impulse control. He’s positioning us.”
Caleb gives me a dry look. “Well done. The litigator has discovered strategy.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” He crosses one ankle over the opposite knee. “He’s wanted one of us handling his legal work for years.”
That makes me look at him. “You’ve never mentioned that.”
“Yes, I have. You only hear half of what anyone says because you’re a single dad with too much going on.”
I ignore that because it is annoyingly plausible. “Why aren’t you doing it?”
Caleb gives me a look like I’ve asked why gravity exists. “Because Bennett is one of my closest friends and one of my biggest clients. Dominic and Bennett are in direct competition often enough that it creates conflict issues. Not always actual ones, but enough potential overlap that it’s messy.”
That tracks. Of course it does. Our friend group has apparently reached the point where everyone is so rich and interconnected that even affection requires conflict waivers.
“So this”—I gesture around my office—“is him solving the problem by hiring the firm instead of poaching you personally.”
Caleb sighs. “This isn’t about me—don’t put yourself down. Dominic likes to work with people he trusts. He trusts you. If it weren’t for your position at Luminous, he’d have been working with you years ago.”
I rub two fingers along the edge of the crystal paperweight. “I guess I always thought of Dominic as more of a—”
The phone on my desk rings.
Reception.
“David Kingsley,” I say as I pick up.
“Mr. Kingsley, this is Talia at the front desk. I have a man here for you. He’s not in your schedule. But he says he’s your father. The other Mr. Kingsley, I assume?”
A slight smile kicks at the corner of my mouth. I like Talia already. “You’d be correct. Send him through, please.”
“Of course. Would you like coffee or water prepared?”
“No.” I hang up and look at Caleb.
“Dad’s here.”
“What the fuck? Why?”