CHAPTER ONE – THE NEW GIRL #2
She merely laughs before shrugging, and then glides back to her desk, leaving me with the odd sensation that I’ve just been both sized up and handed a lifeline.
I slide back into my chair and stare out at the city. The hum of ambition is so thick here, you could bottle it. In the glass, I see my reflection again, but this time there’s only one version—me, hungry and terrified and about to break every rule I ever learned.
Let the games begin.
The lunchroom is three times the size of my college apartment and smells like money even when empty.
The floor is glass tiles, the tables are brushed aluminum, and the fridge—oh my god, the fridge—looks like it could shelter a family of four in a tornado.
Everything is minimalist and gleaming, right down to the abstract fruit bowl in the center of the table.
I suspect the bananas are replaced hourly, lest one develop a bruise and traumatize the paralegals.
I’m alone, which is both a relief and an insult.
I fish my sad sandwich out of my bag and sit near the window, where the sun can glare at me in judgment.
My hands are still trembling from the morning’s adrenaline.
I open my phone, but there’s nothing from Mom, nothing from anyone except one line from my best friend, Jenna: “hope u survive the day lol.”
I set the phone down and reach for my wallet.
The photo is tucked inside, in the slot where other people keep their driver’s licenses.
It’s battered, the corners curling, but it’s all I have left of my dad.
Stanley Williams, age thirty-eight, in a Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, grinning like he just got away with something.
It was taken at a backyard barbecue a year before everything went bad.
I can hear his voice just looking at it, can almost smell the singe of burnt hot dogs and chlorine.
I run my thumb over his face, the same sharp cheekbones as mine, and I wonder—not for the first time—what really happened in that courtroom. The news always made it sound so cut-and-dried. “Williams: Cop Killer.” “Execution Concludes Decade-Long Legal Battle.” “Closure for Victims’ Families.”
Except nothing was ever that simple with my dad. He lied for a living, but he never lied to me. I want to believe that.
I press the photo to my lips, a dumb habit, and whisper, “I’m going to figure it out. I swear, Dad.”
The room stays silent. The only witness is a Keurig brewing something bitter on the counter, and I smile ruefully to myself. Did I really think my dad would answer from Heaven? I must be losing it.
But then, my attention’s caught by a gallery of partner portraits in the hallway.
I get up and tiptoe out, staring at the framed photos lined along the wall.
What is this? Oh my god, it’s as staged and self-serious as a lineup of founding fathers, with portraits of twenty handsome men, taken throughout the decades.
And at the very right-most, are Mr. Brent Gibson and Mr. James Grant, current co-heads of the firm.
Both are in their mid-forties, staring at the camera with piercing blue eyes.
Gibson’s jaw is brutal, square enough to break concrete, and his stare is pure wolf. Black hair, just enough stubble to be dangerous, and a devilish gleam to those blue eyes. If you told me he did cage fighting on weekends, I’d believe you.
Grant is tall and broad, with a smile that could talk its way into a Swiss bank account. His eyes are icy blue, almost silver, and his skin has that expensive tan you can only get on a yacht. Even in a still photo, you can tell he moves like he owns the floor, or maybe the whole building.
I stare longer than I mean to. Something about their confidence makes my stomach flip, like I’m back in high school while looking illicitly at porn on my phone.
Oh my god! I’m going to get caught. My cheeks go hot.
I shift slightly and try to pretend I’m not suddenly hyper-aware of the rest of my body as my pussy moistens, nipples going hard.
But it’s not just their looks. I remember the headlines, the way these two dominated every story about the trial. The “Dream Team” who took my father’s case pro bono, who fought the appeal right up to the bitter end. They lost, of course, but that only seemed to add to their legend.
I feel a pulse of something entirely unprofessional between my legs.
I imagine what it would be like to walk into a room and have both of them—Gibson with his dominant authority, Grant with his lethal charm—turn their attention on me, the new girl, the daughter of their most notorious client.
I clench my knees together and scowl at myself.
Jesus, Marnie. You’re here for answers, not for… whatever the hell this is.
The idea of being the meat in a legal superstar sandwich makes my face burn even hotter.
I’ve never even had a threesome, unless you count the two times I accidentally ended up sandwiched between football players during a university hazing event.
I try to laugh it off, but the heat between my legs is hotter and wetter than I want to admit.
Stop, the voice in my head admonishes. You’re not here for a hook-up, much less one with the managing partners of the law firm. You’re here for your dad.
With that sobering thought, I stalk back into the staff kitchen and tear open a bag of chips before biting into one with unnecessary force.
I need to keep it together, at least until I’ve figured out if Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant are friend or foe.
The last thing I want is to get distracted by a jawline or a pair of piercing blue eyes.
I finish my sandwich, wipe my mouth with a napkin, and tuck my dad’s photo back into its hiding place. For a second, I consider googling “how to act normal around your dead dad’s lawyers,” but I suspect the internet doesn’t have answers for that.
Instead, I stand, rinse my coffee mug, and face my own reflection in the microwave’s stainless steel. I practice a neutral smile, one that doesn’t betray the fact that I just had an erotic fantasy about my enemies. I fail.
Whatever. I’ll fake it till I make it.
When I return to my desk, Shay gives me a secret smile, but doesn’t say anything.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of orientation packets and getting lost in the building’s labyrinthine corridors.
All the while, the memory of the partners’ faces hovers in the back of my mind, mixing with guilt and curiosity in equal measure.
I’m not sure if I’m in more danger of getting fired, or getting seduced. Maybe both.
Either way, I’m not backing down.
The rest of the day is a blur of admin hell: endless onboarding videos, a pop quiz on harassment policy, and sorting documents that seem to multiply when I’m not looking.
I’d die of boredom if not for the fear that at any moment I’ll screw up and get bounced before I’ve even gotten access to the good stuff.
I’m organizing a stack of litigation binders by color (don’t ask, apparently it’s a “Jenkins thing”) when the woman herself materializes at the end of my desk, arms folded, lips pursed.
“Ms. Williams.”
My fingers freeze mid-fumble. “Yes, Ms. Jenkins?”
The older woman fixes me with the look you give someone who’s just double-dipped at a company party. “The partners would like to meet you in person tomorrow morning at 9 a.m. sharp.”
“Tomorrow?” My voice cracks, and I want to bite my own tongue off. “What for? I thought I was already hired.”
She tilts her head, arching a single, surgical brow. “You are, but Mr. Gibson and Mr. Grant always take a personal interest in new hires and like to meet everyone themselves. Don’t be late.”
I blink, caught. “How—”
But she pivots and walks off before I can muster another question.
The moment she’s gone, I sag back in my chair, gripping the armrests to keep from spinning in circles.
I stare at the screen but all I see are those two faces, side by side.
The thought of being trapped in a room with both of them at once turns my stomach into a centrifuge.
My fingers go clammy, and I have to wipe them on my skirt before they short out my keyboard.
Focus, Marnie. Remember the plan.
But the plan didn’t account for my body’s total mutiny.
I can’t stop thinking about the way Brent and James’s eyes seemed to follow me even from a photograph, about the hush that fell over the hallway when their voices carried out of the conference room.
I imagine what they’ll say when they see me.
Will they remember my dad? Will they guess who I am before I even open my mouth?
The idea makes me break out in goosebumps, though whether it’s dread or something more primal I honestly can’t tell.
By five, I’m a wreck. I pack up my laptop and clutch my bag to my chest as I ride the elevator down, refusing to look at my reflection in the steel doors. In the lobby, Shay gives me a little salute and a knowing smile. “Tomorrow’s the big show, huh?”
I nod carefully. “The show?”
She shrugs.
“It happens to everyone. Don’t sweat it,” she says. “If they’re meeting you, it means you’re already halfway in.”
Her words make my pulse spike. “Halfway into what?”
She just grins. “You’ll see.”
What the fuck? Why does this woman seem to talk in riddles all the time?
But I merely smile politely before saying goodbye, and then step onto the sidewalk outside.
The evening sky has gone gunmetal, the city lights flicking on one by one.
I breathe in exhaust and cold air, telling myself to chill, to not read into anything.
But as I start down the block, every step makes my thighs brush together, makes me remember that odd, secret heat that started in the lunchroom when I saw the photographs of Brent Gibson and James Grant.
What made them so magnetic? Of course, it’s their good looks, but it’s only a photo, for crying out loud. I haven’t even seen them in person.
Besides, I’m not here for that. I’m here to get my hands on the Williams files, to pull apart the puzzle of my father’s conviction, to find out who really screwed him over.
But underneath it all, there’s a steady pulse that doesn’t care about justice, or revenge, or anything but the chance to be devoured by the two men who nearly ruined my life.
I walk faster, chasing the feeling all the way home.
Tomorrow, it’ll be me in the room with the wolves. And to be honest … I can’t wait to be eaten by two handsome, dominating alpha males.