Chapter 35 – Rowan
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rowan
I’m already in the ballroom when the partners arrive.
Harris steps in first, shoulders loose and expression easy, moving as if the room adjusts around him on instinct.
Masden keeps pace beside him, speaking under his breath.
Neither of them looks rushed or concerned.
My jaw tightens as Harris spots me near the podium, his gaze locking on mine before shifting directions.
“King,” Harris says as he approaches, his tone almost conversational.
I don’t move to meet him. I let him close the distance because control is often about who moves first.
“Your email last night was unexpected I was surprised that you withdrew from the internship.” His tone stays light, curious in a way that might pass for casual if someone didn’t know better, but his eyes don’t match it.
Masden comes to his side. “We assumed you wanted to smooth over the misunderstanding from lunch.”
My gaze settles on him. “I’m sure you did.”
Men like this don’t expect consequences—they anticipate compliance. Too bad for them, I offer neither.
Harris studies my face, his head tilting. “You look better,” he says after a beat. “Migraine resolved?”
So that’s the angle.
“Yes.”
“That’s good.” His smile holds, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “These retreats can be demanding.”
He says it like it explains everything, like it erases what he did.
I let the silence hang between us, giving him nothing to reshape or redirect.
Across the room, the ballroom doors open, and the shift pulls my attention before I consciously decide to move.
Camden.
He steps inside and pauses just past the threshold as his eyes move across the room, assessing and cataloging.
Then his gaze lands on us.
On me.
Something flickers across his face, but it’s gone just as quickly, buried beneath the confidence he wears. He reaches for his tie with a quick, precise tug.
A reset.
Then he moves toward the partners as if he can’t feel the tension brewing between us.
Fucker.
I take a step forward to meet him head-on, but the host steps up to the podium and taps the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says, his voice carrying easily across the room, “if everyone could take their seats, dinner will begin shortly.”
The room settles into order without question, everyone taking their seats at their assigned tables.
Everyone except me.
I stay where I am, letting the silence deepen as the last chair stills and the final shift of movement fades into nothing.
Then I move.
Not quickly, but with intention, aware of every set of eyes that hasn’t turned yet, and the exact moment they do.
The host turns toward me as I approach, confusion flickering across his face when I reach for the microphone, his hand lingering for half a second too long before my expression makes the decision for him.
He lets go.
Voices thin as I step into position, a few associates turning in their chairs as curiosity pulls their attention first, followed by the slower, more deliberate focus of the rest of the room.
Harris is already watching me from his seat.
His gaze sharpens, something more focused settling behind it as whatever ease he carried in with him begins to recalibrate.
Masden leans back in his chair as if he’s settling in for something mildly entertaining.
Camden folds his hands neatly on the table in front of him, his posture straight and expression composed.
Waiting.
The room quiets completely as I adjust the microphone slightly.
“Good evening.”
My voice carries cleanly across the ballroom, and a few polite nods follow.
“I appreciate everyone taking a moment before dinner.”
My gaze moves across the room as it tracks each table in turn—partners, associates, every set of eyes that matters and several that don’t.
“Earlier today,” I say, “it became clear this retreat encourages… open discussion of private matters. I didn’t realize it was mandatory participation, but I’m happy to adapt.”
The shift is immediate.
Not loud, but undeniable as chairs still and hands pause midmotion.
Harris goes completely still, Masden’s fingers tightening almost imperceptibly around his water glass, while Camden’s jaw flexes once before he forces it back into place.
Good.
They’re paying attention now.
I let the silence stretch just long enough to settle before the screen resolves into a single file—one case with a redacted name at the top and a short summary of a wrongful termination tied to a noncompete clause.
The kind of case that doesn’t look explosive at first glance but turns volatile the moment the right documents surface.
“This is Client X,” I say, my tone leaving no space for interruption. “Forty-two years old, operations director, walked out of his office on a Friday afternoon and retained counsel before the weekend was over.”
A few people shift, their attention sharpening.
“By Monday morning,” I continue, “his attorneys had already outlined a discovery strategy that was unusually… targeted. They weren’t casting a wide net or feeling their way through corporate structure or internal hierarchy.
They went directly for executive correspondence, internal audit trails, and a very specific chain of emails that ultimately forced settlement discussions within two weeks. ”
I let that sit for a beat, just long enough for the more experienced people in the room to recognize the implication.
“That level of precision,” I add, my gaze drifting briefly to the screen before returning to the room, “usually comes from time or access.”
I tap the button on the mouse.
A small timestamp appears in the corner of the file. It’s dated two days before the complaint was ever filed.
“Mr. Hargrove’s mediation summary existed before his case entered the public docket,” I say, my voice lowering. “Prefiling, accessible only to assigned parties and administrative oversight.”
No one speaks.
“And yet,” I continue, taking a breath, “his name appears in your network during that same window, before any filing, before any public record, before any legitimate point of contact would have existed.”
I let the contradiction breathe.
“Not here,” I say, gesturing lightly toward the firm name displayed at the top of the file, “not under your letterhead, not tied to your associates, and not traceable in any way that would survive even minimal scrutiny.”
Another tap, and a second name appears beneath it—a smaller firm, clean record, no obvious connection.
“Instead,” I continue, “the case is routed through an affiliate that looks and operates independently and presents itself as an entirely separate entity from your firm in both structure and representation.”
I let the pause stretch a beat longer this time, because this is where the room starts catching up.
“On paper.”
I don’t rush the next part, because timing matters more than volume.
“Three days later,” I say, “that same case generates a consulting invoice.”
I don’t show it.
I don’t need to, because the absence forces them to picture it for themselves, and that’s always more effective.
“Hale the timing remained precise, the intermediary remained consistent, and the financial trail always resolved back to Hale & Brooks.”
I glance once more at the screen before returning my attention to the masses.
“Hale & Brooks accessed restricted information before the claim became public, and they identified high-value plaintiffs while they were still protected by confidentiality, then passed those identities through a third party so that the initial contact could not be traced back to their firm,” I say, the explanation flowing cleanly.
A breath moves through the room.
I look at Hale and Masden. “It was brilliant, really. You never sign the client, you never appear on record, and you never create a conflict that would trigger scrutiny.” I let a beat pass.
“But you don’t walk away from the case either.
” My gaze holds steady. “You bill as consultants, as strategists, as referral partners with just enough distance to obscure the origin of the relationship.”
I let the weight of that settle before I finish.
“You are sourcing clients through restricted access, routing them through intermediaries to avoid direct solicitation, and collecting revenue on matters you were never authorized to touch,” I say, calm and exact, “which means you are not just participating in these cases…”
I pause, just long enough for the conclusion to begin forming without me.
“You are manufacturing them.”
Silence locks into place.
“And you’ve structured it carefully enough,” I add, my voice quieter now, “that you can profit from both sides of the paper without ever appearing in the file.”
Masden shifts in his chair, his hand leaving his glass as his fingers flex once against his thigh before he stills them again.
“King,” he begins carefully, his tone measured, “I’m not sure this forum—”
I lift one hand.
He stops midsentence.
“You chose the forum earlier today,” I say evenly, holding his gaze without effort. “I’m simply sharing, too.”
No one moves.
No one interrupts.
“You humiliated a woman who does not work for this firm, is not applying to this firm, and owes this firm nothing.”
My gaze moves across the room again, making sure it lands where it needs to land.
“I suggest you remember, where you go digging, you might not always find gold.”
For a moment, the room disappears.
I can still see Tessa sitting at that table this afternoon, her shoulders locking the second Harris said her name, her fingers tightening around her fork until her knuckles blanched.
The way her voice cracked when she tried to explain.
And they watched her.
All of them.
My jaw tightens, and this time, I don’t bother hiding it.
Harris finally moves, straightening in his chair as the casual ease disappears entirely. “Rowan,” he says carefully, his voice carrying through the ballroom with just enough weight to reclaim attention, “this is a serious accusation.”
My pulse hits once in my temple, and the word echoes in my head a fraction of a second longer than it should.
Serious.
They dragged her past into the open without warning, turned her mental health into a spectacle in front of a table full of attorneys, and now we’re discussing seriousness.
Something that feels dangerously close to laughter presses against the back of my throat.
“Yes.”
The word leaves me flatly.
Harris studies me, his gaze narrowing slightly as something behind it recalibrates. “You’re suggesting we violated confidentiality statutes.”
I hold his gaze, my eyes not leaving his for a second.
“You’re suggesting,” he repeats.
I shake my head slowly. “I’m not suggesting.”
I lift one hand, gesturing toward the screen behind me without turning, the residual glow still illuminating the time stamps, and forwarded messages.
“I’m demonstrating.”
Masden shifts beside Harris, the movement tighter this time. “This could have been handled privately.”
For a second, I don’t respond. I just look at him, my hands tightening slightly against the edge of the podium as my fingertips press into the wood.
Privately.
That’s rich, considering there was nothing private about what they did this afternoon to Tessa. They dissected her past like it was a case file instead of a person sitting three feet away from them, and they watched her try to hold herself together while Camden sat there and enjoyed it.
And the worst part was that she believed them, believed she deserved it. Even after everything she told me this morning with the gray days that swallowed hours of her life, the mornings she couldn’t get out of bed, and about the way she thought asking for help made her weak.
My teeth press together, the muscle in my jaw tightening as something colder settles into place.
“You chose not to.”
The words cut through the space before Masden can continue.
I reach forward and close the file on the laptop.
I lift my head and look directly at the tables, at Harris, at Masden, at Camden, as the anger in my chest sharpens.
“You embarrassed the wrong woman.”
Several associates drop their gaze to their plates, suddenly very interested in nothing.
“And the next time any of you decide to destroy someone’s reputation,” I continue, my voice steady as my eyes shift briefly to Camden, just long enough to make the point land, “make sure you have jurisdiction.”
The microphone hums softly in the silence that follows. No one laughs. No one even breathes loudly.
I have enough in my pocket to dismantle three careers before dessert ever touches the table.
But this was never about them.
It was about Tessa—about the look on her face when she realized they’d been digging through her past, about the way she left like she was the problem.
She still thinks that.
Which means this isn’t over. Not even close.
I step away from the podium, and the room remains suspended in stunned silence.
Good.
I walk past the front tables.
I pass Camden first, and he doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the table as his hands remain folded too tightly in front of him. Then Harris, whose expression has reset to something carefully neutral even as his eyes sharpen, already working through damage control.
Too late.
Masden watches me as I pass, his jaw tight, his understanding complete.
He knows exactly what just happened.
The doors to the ballroom loom ahead, and I push them open, cool air hitting my face.
The doors close behind me with a heavy click, and the first thing that fills my head isn’t the firm or the partners or the fallout waiting on the other side of tomorrow.
It’s Tessa.
Because if Tessa Whitmore thinks walking away tonight protects me, she’s wrong.
No one walks away from me anymore.
No one.