Chapter 9
MINJI
The last thing I expected to do when I got to work this morning was to dodge flying coffee cups and office supplies.
Yet here I am, doing just that. I tilt my head to the right as a coffee mug smashes against the wall, narrowly missing my head.
I stand there, stunned, as ceramic pieces scatter across the conference room floor.
“He has no fucking right!” yells my client, Tamara Wilcox.
She’s been in the office for an hour and transformed from a composed socialite to a woman who appears unhinged.
Her hands tremble as she grabs another item to throw—a hefty crystal paperweight that costs more than most people pay for rent in a month. Shit!
“Mrs. Wilcox, please—” I start, but she’s beyond reason now.
“He can’t just hide assets from me! Ten years, Minji! Ten years I gave that man!”
I lunge across the table just as she hurls the paperweight toward the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan. My fingers graze its surface, but I’m too late. The crystal hits the glass with a sickening crack. Thank God for safety glass.
The door swings open abruptly, revealing Aaron in the doorway. He is the last person I want to see this mess.
“Is everything—”
“Get out!” I yell, but Tamara has already locked onto her new target. She snatches up a hefty legal binder and hurls it straight at Aaron’s chest. His reflexes are unexpectedly sharp as he catches the binder in mid-air.
I face my distraught client once again. “Mrs. Wilcox, I see that you’re upset, but destroying the office won’t benefit your case. I’m here to help you, but I can’t do that if you’re destroying everything in sight.”
“Help me? All you’ve done is tell me that my husband—whom I caught cheating with his twenty-four-year-old assistant—has concealed millions from me!
” Her voice escalates to a piercing level, making my ears ring.
Her eyes, rimmed with smudged mascara, dart frantically around the room for her next weapon.
Aaron steps forward cautiously, positioning himself protectively in front of me.
“Mrs. Wilcox,” he says softly. “We haven’t been introduced, but I’m Aaron.
I haven’t witnessed many divorces, but I can tell you that this moment right here—” He points to the broken mug and waving the binder “—won’t define your future.
What you do next will determine that.” I move to stand next to him, wondering what he thinks he’s doing.
Tamara pauses, momentarily taken aback by the interruption. “And who exactly are you?” she asks.
“Aaron Singleton,” he says with that disarming smile. “I haven’t been at the firm long but from what I’ve gathered watching Minji work, you couldn’t be in better hands.”
I feel a rush of emotions; annoyance that he’s inserted himself into my client meeting, and furious that he thinks it is remotely okay to do so.
Tamara’s shoulders slump slightly. “I-I trusted him.”
“I know.” I seize the moment of calm. “And he betrayed that trust. But destroying this conference room won’t get you justice. Working with me will.”
I gesture for her to take her seat, maintaining eye contact. “Let’s sit down and take a breath. Then we’ll talk about how we’re going to make Richard Wilcox regret the day he thought he could outsmart either of us.”
She sits, smoothing down her brunette hair, hands still trembling.
“Richard always said I was just a pretty face.” She scoffs. “That I couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of his business dealings.”
“Then he underestimated you,” I say, taking the seat across from her. “And that’s going to be his biggest mistake. Because you, Mrs. Wilcox, are more than just a pretty face… Trust me, he is going to regret it.”
Aaron’s eyes catch mine and he gives me a small nod before backing toward the door. But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he leans against the wall, watching our exchange with that irritating curiosity of his. I shoot him a glare that should freeze hell, but he responds with a slight shrug.
“Mr. Singleton.” I keep my voice professional. “Thank you. You may leave now.”
Even from across the fractured space, I see his eyes tick wider, the briefest ripple of surprise.
His smile, though, doesn’t even tremble.
“Of course,” he says, as if I offered him tickets to an exclusive gala, not just forcibly ejected him from the room.
He pushes off from the wall, smooth as an apology.
Then he glances at Tamara and gives her a nod—respectful, no trace of condescension. “Mrs. Wilcox, it was nice meeting you.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and the room settles instantly, like the air has been sucked out and replaced with a more breathable gas.
Now it’s just me, Tamara, and the last vestiges of chaos: the pulverized remains of a mug, the spiderweb crack in the window, and the lingering stench of scorched pride and dark roast.
I draw a measured inhale and turn to face Tamara, who has gone from explosive to brittle in the time it takes for footsteps to fade down a hall.
She’s hunched over, the fragile architecture of her composure rebuilt from a single trembling tissue which she blots beneath her eyes in small, furious dabs.
“Now.” I push aside the mess on the table to retrieve my legal pad, “Let’s talk strategy.”
Tamara’s head jerks up, surprised by the absence of judgment.
The world expects anger, pity, or even a lecture on appropriate conference-room decorum, but I only have time for results.
She sniffs, dabs again, and gives me a sheepish look.
Somewhere inside, a switch flips: she’s no longer a woman on the edge, but a client with a mission.
The remainder of the hour is productive, thankfully.
I lead her through the next steps: asset tracing, forensic accounting, the tactical deployment of subpoenas and depositions.
Every phrase is a step deeper into the familiar trench warfare of divorce, and with each minute, I see her reclaim more of herself.
By the time I’m refilling her water and sliding a fresh set of exhibits across the table, Tamara is upright, her voice steadier, her hands no longer hunting for projectiles.
“Thank you, Minji,” she says at last, eyes now less glassy. “I’m sorry about…” She gestures vaguely at the detritus, her hand flapping like a marionette with a snapped string.
“We have a cleaning crew for a reason.” With a dismissive wave of my own, already making a mental note to tip extra this month. “It’s not the first time and won’t be the last. Divorce brings out strong reactions.”
She laughs, a brief, ugly honk that sounds more like relief than joy. Then, as if the whole episode were a bad fever dream, she re-applies her lipstick, lifts her purse, and exits from the room.
I take a moment alone, exhaling slowly. Two years to the day since my last client meltdown, and Aaron had to witness this one.
Perfect. When I finally push open my office door, there he is—lounging in my chair like he owns it, feet propped on my polished desk, scribbling away in that leather-bound notebook of his.
“By all means, make yourself comfortable.” I shut the door behind me.
He glances up, a dimple forming as he grins. “I thought you might appreciate a bit of normalcy after dodging paperweights and binders.”
“And you believe finding a man sitting in my chair is normal?” I arch an eyebrow but can’t summon my usual edge. The Tamara tornado has left me drained.
Aaron lowers his feet and stands, presenting my chair to me with a dramatic flourish. “My apologies, Counselor.”
“Thanks for stepping in back there.” I sigh, dropping into my seat with a sigh. “Though you really shouldn’t have.”
Aaron leans against my desk. “You’re welcome. Though you seemed to have it handled.”
“Did I?” I chuckle without amusement. “She almost took my head off with anything she could get her hands on.”
“But she didn’t.” His eyes lock with mine.
“Reflexes of someone who took ju-jitsu for eight years growing up.” I massage my temples as a headache begins to set in. “I really need some coffee.”
Just as I’m about to reach for my phone to ask Eliza, Aaron heads to the door. “I’ll get it. Iced caramel macchiato with an extra shot, right?”
I blink, surprised. “How did you—”
“I pay attention.” He gives a wink and exits the office.
Alone, I let my shoulders relax. The Wilcox case will be tough—Richard has ties to Manhattan’s financial elite and will put up a fierce fight.
Yet, there’s a savage satisfaction in pulling the rug out from under men like Richard.
The ones who think their wallets are invisibility cloaks, who treat loyalty as a one-way street running straight to their own ego.
I’ve seen the aftermath too many times: good women gaslit into thinking they’re asking for too much, or that a decade of invisible labor is just a footnote on a balance sheet.
No—this time, the footnote is going to read: You underestimated Minji Lee, you arrogant prick.
While I’m drafting this mental memo, Aaron reappears.
He’s balancing two venti cups almost gracefully.
He sets one in front of me, the cup’s lid still pristine.
He takes the seat across from me, uninvited but too at ease to make it feel like trespass.
I wonder if he always moves through life like this.
A guest star who’s read the script but prefers to improvise.
He studies me for a beat, his gaze not quite clinical but sharply observant. “So,” he says, “was Mrs. Wilcox typical of your clientele?”
I take a sip of my coffee. Wow, he made it exactly how I like it. “There’s no ‘typical’ in divorce law. Every case is its own special disaster.”
“But you enjoy it.” He’s stating a fact, not posing a question.
“I like winning,” I clarify. “I like ensuring that people like Tamara don’t end up with nothing after dedicating years to a marriage.” My mood immediately sours when my phone vibrates and it’s William.
“Problem?” Aaron asks, noticing my expression.
“Nothing I can’t handle.” I turn the phone face down on my desk. “Just William being William.”
“Has he apologized for what he said in the conference room?”
“Of course not. Men like William don’t apologize; they just pretend it never happened.” I take another sip.
Aaron sits back, crossing one leg over the other, and I can’t help but notice how comfortable he seems in my territory. Like he belongs here.
“So, William’s the type who thinks being wrong is something that happens to other people?” he asks.
“William thinks being a man means never having to say you’re sorry.” I take another long sip, letting the caffeine work its magic. “But I’d rather not talk about him. We should probably chat about the comic book launch.”
“Ah.” Aaron’s smile returns, lighting up his whole face. “So, you’ve decided to come?”
“I’m thinking about it. But I want to make it clear: it’s not a date.”
“Of course not. Because a date with you wouldn’t include other people interrupting us, unless it’s to take our order. So, this would be just two colleagues attending a social event together.”
“Exactly, and I’ll meet you there.” Sticking to maintaining boundaries.
“Minji, please let me pick you up. Since this is an invite-only event, and I have the invite.”
Crap. Okay, so maybe for once I can adjust the boundaries.
“Alright,” I agree. “But let’s take a car service.”
“I was going to suggest a car service regardless. I intend to enjoy Axel’s open bar.”
“Eight o’clock, then. I’ll text you my address.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” he says warmly, sending a traitorous flutter through my stomach.
Abort mission, Minji.
“My client will be arriving in an hour. So, you will have the office to yourself for a bit. Don’t go through my things or do you want to come with me? You’ll have to sign the additional NDA. This one is a little more intense than the NDA you signed when you started working here.”
“No, I’m okay.”
I nod, relieved that he’s not pressing to accompany me. “Good. Well, I should—”
“Actually,” he interrupts, standing up and straightening his blazer, “I think I’ll head down to the coffee shop in the lobby and tweak a few chapters. Being in this office has given me some interesting insights into modern relationships.”
I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not using my clients as inspiration.”
“Not specifically.” His smile is infuriating. “But the dynamics, the power struggles, the emotional undercurrents? Gold for a romance writer.”
“There’s nothing romantic about divorce.” My tone is flat.
Aaron tilts his head, studying me with an intensity that makes me want to fidget. “On the contrary. Every ending contains the seeds of a new beginning. That’s what makes second-chance romances so compelling.”
I roll my eyes. “Save the literary philosophy for your readers.”
“Speaking of which.” He moves toward the door. “I should get going. My editor is breathing down my neck about this deadline.”
“Don’t let me keep you,” I reply, already turning to my computer.
As he reaches the door, he pauses. “Minji, I’m already counting down the days and hours until I get to see you out of your comfort zone.”
My fingers hover over my keyboard, suddenly unsure what to do with themselves.
“Don’t make me reconsider this.” I frown slightly.
“You won’t.” He winks walking out of my office, leaving me staring at the closed door.
I shake my head and try to focus on my upcoming client meeting.
Aaron Singleton might be charming and surprisingly helpful during client meltdowns, but I’ve spent years building barriers between my professional and personal life.
One dimpled smile and a perfectly made coffee won’t change that.