Chapter 33
MINJI
San Francisco? Perfect.
Aaron? Perfect.
Leaving Aaron in San Francisco? Not so perfect.
After thirty-two years of living, I’ve learned when to leave unfinished business behind, with the promise of return.
On our last night, sleep eluded us. We were tangled in hotel sheets, whispering secrets, feeling vulnerable, as dawn approached.
The airport shuttle arrived seven minutes early, almost as if the universe was taunting us.
At the curb, Aaron lifted my bag, and our hands reached for each other, reluctant yet unable to let go.
His goodbye kiss outside terminal G was not theatrical; it was painfully genuine—soft, prolonged, and full of unspoken words.
It was the kind of kiss that yearns to be shared by true lovers. My chest still tightened with longing.
My phone vibrates—Aaron. Instantly, my shoulders drop. Suddenly, shelling out twenty bucks for in-flight Wi-Fi feels like the best investment I’ll make all day.
Aaron
Touchdown yet?
Me
Still airborne.
Aaron
Already missing you.
It’s ridiculous how just a few words from him can send my stomach somersaulting.
Me
It’s been four hours.
Aaron
Four too many.
The flight attendant offers drinks, but I wave her off. My mind is already wandering to Café Lucid, that cozy spot near my apartment where the barista greets me by name and remembers my order every time.
Me
Boarding your Texas flight?
Aaron
Just settled into my seat. Listen...
The message with the ellipsis just sits there. My screen stays dark for two minutes.
Me
Where did you go?
Aaron
You should see about visiting me at my second-to-last stop. Try to take another vacation in two weeks. I want to ruin you in the best way possible.
A warm rush blooms in my chest. Aaron’s invitation is dangerously tempting, but I need to be sure this isn’t just lust or the afterglow of a flawless weekend. I want something real, something that lasts. As Demi always reminds me, great sex is the world’s most convincing liar.
Me
So you’re just wanting all day access to my body?
If I’m being honest, the idea of having all-day, all-night access to him sounds pretty perfect.
Aaron
That’s only part of it. I really do want to wake up next to you every morning and fall asleep holding you every night.
Me
As much as I would love to do that, I have cases pending. You’ll be back soon, and then we’ll definitely make up for lost time.
Aaron
Fine. But I’m counting down the days. I’ve never complained about my career, but now I am.
I don’t want to spend any more days away from you when I get back.
I will have to start doing NYC signings only if you can’t travel with me.
If I’m being honest, I’m ready to cancel the rest of the signings to get back home to you.
I can’t help but laugh, picturing his over-the-top pout. The man who thrives on meeting fans now wants to cut his tour short just to be with me. I love knowing he’s just as smitten as I am, though I’m not quite ready to say it out loud.
Me
Your poor suffering fans would be devastated.
Aaron
They’ll survive. My dick, on the other hand…
I almost choke on my own spit.
Me
You’re insane.
Aaron
Only for you. Gotta go, Honeybee, they’re closing the doors. Call you when I land.
Me
Am I not worth the in-flight Wi-Fi?
Aaron
You are, but Tabitha wants to go over some things. We’re heading straight to a signing when I get off the plane.
Me
Well, in that case, have a safe flight. I’ll be waiting for your call.
I set my phone aside, a gentle warmth radiating through me. I lean back, eyes closed, letting Aaron’s words linger like sunlight on my skin. I wish I could bottle this happiness, but I know reality will come crashing in the moment I touch down at JFK.
And in that moment, I will know.
I force my eyes open and, after a moment’s hesitation, pull my laptop from the seatback pocket.
I promised myself I wouldn’t check my work email until I landed, but muscle memory taps the Outlook icon.
I need to know if Evelyn ever reached out.
I skim the inbox and feel a cold bead of sweat at my hairline: three unread messages from Evelyn Hui-Wang, all sent Friday night—10:37 PM, 11:14 PM, and then 1:47 AM Saturday morning.
Late-night emails from divorce clients never bode well.
What the hell is happening? Now I wish she hadn’t reached out to me at all. Nothing good is going to come from these emails.
I click the first one. Evelyn’s usual clipped formality has dissolved into a frantic run-on paragraph about how she ‘has been thinking a lot’ and ‘maybe it’s not fair to pin everything on James.
’ I skim to the end, searching for the emotional explosion.
It’s not there, just the teetering panic of someone desperately clawing at the door for escape.
For a moment, I feel nothing but weary frustration.
This is textbook. Every year, at least a quarter of my clients react this way.
Guilt. Family pressure. In a week, she’ll return, mortified and ready to sign those papers.
But the second email is different. It’s longer, and I find myself slowing down to read every word.
Evelyn talks about how much her husband has changed, how he’s ‘really trying, for the first time.’ The language is still erratic, but there’s a new, unsettling conviction to it.
She writes, “Maybe I was too quick to judge… I want to give us another chance.” She signs off with her full name as if this makes it more official.
I close my eyes and count to five. I desperately want to ignore it, to let her twist in her anxiety for a few days, and then talk her through the inevitable regrets, but I know that’s not an option.
The Hui-Wang case is the highest-profile divorce on my desk, and word will travel fast if a reconciliation happens.
I open the third email, bracing for another long-winded email.
Instead, I get the opposite: three short, final lines.
“We spent the month in Taiwan together. We’re finally trying for a baby. I’m not going through with the divorce.”
I freeze, stunned, glancing around as if everyone can see my world collapsing.
My seatmate is lost in sleep, chin tucked to her chest, and I ache with envy.
I want to disappear, to be anywhere but here, watching my ambitions unravel.
I scroll, searching for a lifeline, but there’s only the sharp sting of finality.
My anxiety spikes as I check my other inboxes.
Of course, James Wang’s attorney has already sent an email: ‘URGENT: Case Status.’ Even the subject line makes my stomach twist.
I open the email.
“Dear Ms. Lee, please be advised that our clients have reconciled and wish to terminate all proceedings, effective immediately.” The rest is just legal noise, like a breakup text in email form.
I read it twice, hoping for a loophole that isn’t there.
The Hui-Wang are gone. I let out a shaky breath.
My shot at partnership—gone. I slam my laptop shut, frustration rising.
This happens. Clients get back together.
I should be happy, right? What’s the crappy saying? Love conquers all.
I tip my head back and close my eyes. The plane’s white noise morphs into a harsh hiss inside my skull.
That earlier happiness now feels like a cruel joke.
Pain pulses behind my eyes, radiating through my head.
Losing these clients isn’t just a setback—it’s a brutal reminder of everything I stand to lose.
I can already see William’s smug, tight-lipped smile when he finds out.
He’ll fake disappointment, maybe even sympathy, but he’s dying to see me stumble.
He wants to gloat, to claim partnership and the Seoul office for himself.
I’m happy for Evelyn. Really. But fuck my life.
The weekend’s happiness evaporates. Pain hammers at my temples.
It’s as if the universe is punishing me for daring to choose romance over work.
I should have checked Evelyn’s email sooner, should have reminded her of all James’ broken promises.
Now they’re ‘trying for a baby’—I’ve watched that train wreck unfold in my office at least thirty times.
I flag down the flight attendant and order two drinks. If I could, I’d ask for six. When the gin and tonics arrive, I down half in one gulp. I’m halfway through the second when I sense someone watching me.
The woman beside me eyes my drink. “Bad news?”
I jolt. I thought she was asleep.
“The sighing,” she continues. “And the way you slammed your laptop.”
“Just work,” I mutter, avoiding eye contact. “Sorry I woke you.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She shifts in her seat. “Been there.”
I glance over. She’s probably mid-forties, a Cartier watch glinting from beneath her sleeve, wedding band worn thin. She strikes me as the type whose LinkedIn headline reads ‘thoughtful leader.’
“Lost a client,” I hear myself say. “A big one. My shot at making partner.”
She winces. “Ouch. What industry?”
“Law. Divorce attorney.”
Her eyebrows rise. “You seem young for that.”
My spine stiffens. “I’m thirty-two.”
“No offense meant,” she says, hands raised slightly. “Just seems like heavy baggage to carry at any age.”
“Somebody has to do it.”
She studies me, her gaze uncomfortably perceptive. “But why you specifically?”
I take another sip. “Because I’m good at it.”
She sits in silence, patient and self-assured, as if she’s already read my whole story. In another universe, she’d be a therapist instead of whatever high-powered job her tailored suit suggests.
“Because I understand it,” I finally say, the gin loosening my tongue. “I know why relationships fall apart. I’ve seen the patterns, recognized the warning signs. I just want my clients to get what they deserve.”
“So, you help people sift through the wreckage.”