Chapter 33 #2
“Something like that.” I watch the ice dissolve in my glass, the gin growing weaker by the second. “But lately, my clients are doing the opposite—patching things up, getting back together, even planning babies.”
“That’s bad?” She sounds genuinely confused.
“It’s…” I search for the right word. “Statistically unlikely to succeed.”
She laughs warmly, without a trace of mockery. “Oh, honey, if we all lived by statistics, nobody would ever fall in love.”
Her words echo Aaron’s past jabs. I shift uncomfortably, wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“I should try to sleep.”
“Of course.” She tucks a magazine into the seatback pocket.
“My husband and I almost divorced fifteen years ago. Statistics said it was over. Now we’ve got three kids and have just taken our third honeymoon.
I’m glad we didn’t listen. So don’t beat yourself up over a client rekindling their love.
Maybe not making partner will open your eyes to the fact that divorce law isn’t the only path. ”
Her assumption stings. I stare at her, momentarily speechless. How dare she judge my career—and my life—from one brief chat?
“You don’t know anything about me.”
She holds up her hands in a gesture of peace. “You’re right. I don’t. Just an observation from someone who’s lived a bit longer.”
I turn back to the window, ending the conversation. She flips open her magazine, unbothered by my rudeness. But as the plane begins its descent into New York, her words keep bouncing around in my head. Isn’t the only path. I try to shake it off, but it lingers.
New York appears below us—home, my real life.
The landing is smooth, and when the seatbelt sign turns off, I gather my things.
Phones light up, seats snap upright, and everyone gets ready to leave.
I put my laptop in my bag, trying to shake off my tiredness and the effects of the drinks.
My seatmate, who turned out to be an accidental therapist, gives me a kind, knowing smile, like someone who’s spent years conducting exit interviews.
“Good luck,” she says, gathering her own things with quick movements. Her scarf is already knotted, her heels buckled, and everything locked in place like armor. “But a word of advice before you go, don’t let failures define you. They’re just detours, not destinations.”
Her advice should roll off me, but instead it sticks. My smile feels forced. “Thanks. Have a good trip.” With a nod, she merges into the river of passengers.
I join the sea of people flowing through JFK, past overpriced neck pillows and gourmet cupcakes. A toddler’s wail ricochets off the walls, and I’m oddly grateful for the chaos. Classic New York: someone else’s meltdown means you’re doing okay by comparison.
My phone vibrates.
Demi
Outside… you said terminal 4, right? You here? You gotta grab a checked bag?
Her name on my screen washes over me with a wave of relief.
Me
Just landed. Yes, Terminal 4. Carry-on only.
Outside, New York’s thick humidity slaps me after California’s gentle chill. Demi’s car is easy to spot—double-parked, hazards blinking, a traffic attendant gesturing wildly at her window. Through the glass, I catch her animatedly arguing, all big gestures and dramatic mouth shapes.
“Enfin! Ma chérie!” she shouts when she spots me, her accent atrocious. The attendant throws up her hands. Classic Demi, pretending not to speak or understand English, so she doesn’t have to ride around.
I toss my bag in the back and sink into the passenger seat. “Let me guess—you’ve forgotten how to speak English again?”
“Mais oui,” she says, cutting off a taxi as we merge into traffic. “So, talk to me. How was San Fran?”
I lean back against the headrest. “It was amazing.”
“Right? It’s so beautiful.”
“Yeah, and honestly, I didn’t want to leave.” Now, all I want is to go back—especially after Evelyn’s news. I can already picture the whispers at the firm, the partners’ raised eyebrows.
Demi lets out a long, satisfied “Hmmmm,” as if she’s enjoying a rich dessert. “Being in the honeymoon phase feels amazing, right? Great sex, good conversation, and just being happy.”
“I wish every day with him would be the honeymoon phase, but that would only be wishful thinking. Statistically—”
Demi takes her eyes off the road just long enough to fix me with a flat, ‘I’m about to pull this car over and strangle you,’ look.
“Please stop with the statistics for one second, Minji. Before I reach over there and throat punch you.” She’s half-grinning, half-exasperated, the way she gets when she’s sure she knows better than me.
And if I’m honest, that’s roughly eighty percent of the time we’re together.
“I’m just saying,” I start, defensive, but she cuts me off with a sharp flick of her hand, nearly swiping a cyclist in the process.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” she demands, “or did you wince every time he said something cheesy? I know how much you dislike it when guys whisper those sweet little nothings. Or do you like it when he does it?”
For a moment, I do think about lying. But the weekend’s memories crowd in—dawn light on tangled sheets, Aaron’s hand drawing lazy circles on my back, the way he watched me when he thought I was asleep.
The truth tumbles out before I can stop it.
“I think I’m a sucker for sweet nothings when they come from him. ”
Demi lets out a long, low whistle. “There it is. Progress. My girl’s about to fall in love.” She sings the words, then swerves into the fast lane so suddenly that I almost hit my head on the window. “But why do you look so glum? Cold feet? Did he get weird? Do I need to go beat his ass?”
“Nothing like that.” I clear my throat. “Reality always crashes in eventually.” I take a deep breath, steadying myself for the plunge. “In as reality would have it… the Hui-Wang divorce is off.”
For a moment, it’s like the city itself pauses. Demi’s hand freezes on the wheel, her expression swinging from amusement to disbelief. “No way. What happened?”
“Reconciliation. And they’re planning a baby.” Bitterness creeps into my voice. “Evelyn kept emailing while I was away. I thought it was just nerves, but she’s serious. They’re back together. Happily ever after.”
Demi lets out a low, impressed whistle. “Damn. That was your golden ticket.”
“My partnership. Gone.” The words burn. “And William will be strutting around the office as if he owns it.”
“He can go fuck himself with a cactus,” Demi snaps.
I let out a strangled laugh, the kind that’s halfway to a sob. “I swear, he orchestrated this. The timing is too perfect. He probably nudged James’ attorney and told him how much cheaper reconciliation would be.”
She gives me a sideways look, the kind that says she’s already theorized three possible corporate espionage scenarios and would happily help me dispose of a body. “Seriously? You think he’d sabotage you like that?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the headache blooming behind my eyes. “I can’t prove it. But I feel it in my gut.”
Demi drums her fingers on the steering wheel, jaw set in solidarity. “Well, fuck William and fuck the Wangs,” she says, the vehemence in her voice sending a little thrill through me. “There will be other cases, and you will make partner, and if not, you can always start your own firm.”
I nod, but we both know better. Cases like the Wangs are rare, and starting my own firm is a fantasy unless a guardian angel or a secret trust fund appears.
Silence thickens in the car, heavy as the city heat.
I watch taxis and glass towers blur by, trying not to sulk, but my mind refuses to cooperate.
Demi senses my downward spiral. She reaches over and squeezes my knee, firm and grounding.
“Don’t start beating yourself up,” she warns.
“It’s not a good look. Let’s talk about something happier—like Aaron.
What’s he like in the morning? Is he cute or a mess?
Does he talk about his feelings, or just wave his hands around with metaphors?
I’ve always wondered how my favorite author acts off the page. ”
I’m grateful for the change in topic, because if we had kept talking about it, I think I would have ended up crying.
I force a laugh, feeling the weight shift in my chest. “Aaron in the morning is… surprisingly cheerful. Like annoyingly so. He gets up and makes coffee without complaint, and he’s just so present. It’s unsettling.”
“Unsettling?” Demi takes her eyes off the road for a dangerous second. “You mean refreshing, right? Because William was a grumpy asshole who needed catering to every morning.”
“Yes, refreshing,” I admit. “He’s attentive in ways I’m not used to. He notices everything—like when I’m cold, or when I need water after…” I trail off, cheeks burning.
Demi cackles. “After he fucks the shit outta you? Babes, that man has ruined you, and I love that for you. I’ve never seen you blush like this.”
“It’s not just the sex,” I say, gazing out the window. “It’s everything. He’s romantic, but not over the top. When he looks at me, I feel like I’m the only person in the world.”
“And that’s bad because…?”
“Because what if I get used to it? What if I start expecting it? And then, when it fades—”
“When it fades?” Demi interrupts, turning a corner with a sharp twist of the wheel. “Not if, but when? Listen to yourself!”
I sink deeper into the passenger seat. “You know what I mean. The honeymoon phase always ends.”
“For some people,” she shoots back. “For others, it just evolves. Not everyone’s relationship is doomed to fail like your clients’. Girl, if you mess this up, I’ll bury you in my greenhouse. Emotional sabotage is a crime.”
“You know I’ll probably do something to ruin it, eventually.”
“Which is why you need—” She glances over her shoulder, then back at me—“to have a plan.”
I scoff. “Because relationship strategy is my strong suit?”
“No, because you’re a disaster in heels, and I refuse to let you self-destruct without a backup parachute.” She gestures emphatically, zipping around a truck. “So what’s your next move?”
I crack the window. “I work. I find another case and claw my way back.”
“You know I’m not asking you about work. Why the hell would I ask you about work? I’m talking about Aaron!”
I swallow, unsure how to answer.
But as we cross the Triboro, the entire skyline comes into view, massive and imposing. “I’ll call Aaron later,” I say, more to myself than anyone. “Maybe surprise him in the last week of his tour. If I can get the firm to approve the travel.”
Demi nods, as if this is the only logical answer. “See? You’re capable of romance. All it took was years of trauma bonding and one hot author.” She flicks on her turn signal, a sly smile playing at her lips. “Oh, and the most important question—”
“What?”
“Did you get my wine? Please tell me you got my wine. How many bottles? And did you make him pay?”
“Yes. Six bottles, and yes, Aaron paid. His agent is shipping it to my place, it should be here by the end of the week.”
“Great. I love expensive wine when I’m not paying for it.” She chuckles.
The rest of the drive is quiet—the good kind, the kind that only exists between friends who’ve weathered everything together.
I lean my head against the cool window, watching Manhattan’s chaos swirl by.
When we reach my building, Taylor, the doorman is already on his feet behind the glass.
Demi pulls into a no-standing zone, engine humming.
That’s my cue. I twist to grab my weekend bag from the back.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I say, reaching over to give her a hug.
“Promise me you’ll actually think about what happened out there, instead of hiding behind case files.” She taps my arm. “Maybe losing the Hui-Wang divorce is just the universe nudging you toward something better.”
I step onto the curb with my bag slung over my shoulder. “You don’t believe in cosmic intervention.”
“I didn’t,” she shouts as I close the door, “until you started sleeping with the man who literally writes about destiny for a living—hey asshole, do not double park, I’m fucking leaving.
” I watch Demi drive away, her car horn blaring at some poor pedestrian who dared to cross without looking.
The fatigue hits me all at once, not just physical exhaustion but the emotional whiplash of going from Aaron’s arms to my professional crisis in a matter of hours.
Taylor rushes to grab my bag. “Welcome back, Ms. Lee. Good weekend?”
“The best,” I admit, surprising us both. “But I think I’m paying for it now.”
He chuckles, pressing the elevator button. “Aren’t we always?”