Chapter 34
MINJI
“Welcome back, Ms. Lee,” she says, voice carefully neutral. “Mr. Higgins requested you see him immediately.”
Just what I needed. The adult version of being marched to the principal’s office, only with better shoes and higher stakes.
“Thank you, Rosalyn.”
I skip my office altogether. No sense in prolonging the inevitable. Each step down the hallway pulls California—and Aaron—further away, like a tide draining out, until all that’s left is the hard shell of Minji Lee, Esquire.
Caleb’s corner office screams power. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame Manhattan like his personal kingdom. His desk—some endangered hardwood that probably cost as much as my law school debt—sits pristine and devoid of family photos or personal artifacts. At least I keep a jade plant in my office.
He glances up when I tap the doorframe.
“Minji.” He motions to the chair opposite him. “Trip go well?”
“It served its purpose.”
“The Hui-Wang situation…”
“I heard.” I cross my legs, ankles aligned. “Can’t fault two people for falling back in love.”
“William predicted you’d take it harder.”
My eyebrow lifts slightly, the only tell I allow myself. “I’d be upset if they’d jumped to Steinberg & Associates. But reconciliation? Part of the business. You’d know that from your days in the trenches, wouldn’t you?”
Caleb’s slight nod concedes my point about his past in the trenches. “William has redirected the Wangs to our estate planning department.”
“A logical progression.” I keep my gaze steady on his, my face blank. He reclines, expensive leather creaking beneath him. “Minji, let’s not dance around this. The Wang reconciliation has… complicated your partnership track.”
“One case doesn’t define my practice,” I cut in. “I have three high-net-worth prospects already lined up.” The lie slides out smoothly. By Friday, it won’t be a lie anymore—I’ll make sure of it, even if it means no sleep.
“Your drive has always impressed me,” Caleb says, but his voice carries a note that suggests otherwise. “However, our timeline remains unchanged.”
“I’m well aware of the deadline.” I’d calculated precisely how the Wang victory would align with the partnership vote.
“Given the circumstances,” he continues, folding his hands, “I think you should recalibrate your expectations. Perhaps aim for partner in a few years? William has stepped up considerably during your leave, and now he’s ready for our Seoul office.
I wanted you to hear this from me directly—professional courtesy. ”
I inhale slowly, measuring my words. “Interesting. And what specific metrics informed this decision?”
Caleb’s right shoulder twitches—almost imperceptible, but I’ve spent years reading opposing counsel’s tells. “This isn’t solely about numbers, Minji. William demonstrates certain leadership qualities—”
“The Hui-Wang case was my acquisition. During my leave of absence.” My voice stays level while my fingernails dig crescents into my palm beneath the desk.
“William’s entire caseload consists of clients I cultivated.
One might wonder whether he approached James’ attorney about the possibility of reconciliation during my absence. The coincidental timing is notable.”
Caleb’s jaw tightens. “That borders on impropriety.”
“I’m merely connecting observable data points.”
“Nothing’s set in stone yet,” he concedes after a pause. “I simply wanted to manage your expectations.”
I stand, smoothing my skirt with one practiced motion. “My expectation is equitable evaluation of my complete portfolio, not fixation on a single case with questionable dissolution. My five-year revenue generation exceeds any attorney here, and my client retention statistics remain unparalleled.”
He starts to say my name, but I cut him off.
“My complete portfolio will be on your desk by Friday,” I say, my voice a steel blade. “With metrics that speak for themselves.”
I pivot toward the door when Caleb’s words catch me.
“William predicted this reaction,” he says. “The defensiveness.”
I half-turn, one eyebrow arched. “This isn’t defensiveness, Caleb. It’s a business strategy.”
Walking back is like performing on a stage where the audience pretends not to watch.
Cindy glances up from her paperwork and flashes a thumbs-up—her faith in me unwavering, and today, grating.
I want to yell, “They’re screwing me over,” but the unspoken rules are ironclad.
No scenes, no cracks. Even when the ground shifts, you pretend you saw it coming.
I enter my office, and it’s exactly as I left it, organized, with not a paper out of place. I close the door and allow myself three deep breaths, a five-second internal tantrum, and I’m back to business. I’ve barely settled into my chair when a soft knock interrupts, and Eliza peers in.
“Hey, Boss Lady, welcome back,” she says with caution.
I gesture her in, swallowing the urge to snap about the funeral atmosphere everyone’s adopted. She slips inside, sealing us off from the bullpen’s curious eyes.
“Word is the Wangs found their way back to marital bliss,” she says, perching on my visitor chair like she might need to flee.
“Apparently. News travels fast.”
“It’s a law firm. Gossip is our second billing category.” She taps a pink envelope against her palm. “For what it’s worth, everyone thinks it was a dick move for William to even get the partnership now because let’s be real, the Thornton case was yours to begin with as well.”
“Well, everyone except Caleb thinks that way, apparently.”
“You’ve seen him already?” The pitch of her voice rises with each word.
“Fresh from his office. William’s his golden boy.”
“That’s—” Eliza’s professional veneer cracks completely.
“That’s bullshit! Sorry, but it is. Your billables are better, your case success rate is higher, and you don’t schmooze with the partners on the golf course every weekend pretending to care about their swing technique. You deserve to be a partner.”
I nod toward the envelope between her fingers. “What’s that?”
“Just delivered. It’s from Evelyn Hui-Wang herself.” Eliza’s eyebrows lift. “Maybe she’s apologizing? She called on Friday, but I told her you were away.” She extends the envelope across my desk. “Consultation in forty minutes, by the way. Let me know if you need anything else.”
After the door clicks shut, I study what Evelyn sent—pale pink stationery with weight to it, the kind you find in those Madison Avenue boutiques where saleswomen judge your shoes. My name curves across the front in practiced calligraphy.
The letter opener makes a satisfying slice through expensive paper. Inside: a matching card bearing the Hui-Wang monogram in gold leaf. Something cold settles in my chest as I unfold it.
“Dear Ms. Lee,” it begins, all formality despite our months of discussing her most intimate grievances. My eyes catch phrases like ‘exceptional counsel,’ ‘circumstances have changed,’ and ‘James and I have decided’ until I reach the final paragraph.
The tickets slide out when I unfold the letter fully—two first-class passes to Taipei on thick stock that feels expensive between my fingers. A Post-it clings to them: ‘The spa in Jinshan healed me. You deserve the same.’
A sound escapes me, half laugh, half disbelief. The ultimate backhanded thank you—a luxury getaway as a consolation prize for not keeping them apart. I want to fling the tickets across the room, but my hand stays frozen. The Wangs have turned their reunion into the most graceful insult imaginable.
I stash the whole package in my bottom drawer as if it might burn me.
The mountain of case files on my desk is waiting, and I need three new high-value clients before William snatches them up.
The only way forward is the same as always: work twice as hard for half the recognition.
That’s the unspoken rule for women here.
Two hours disappear into legal briefs and discovery requests—the metronome of my career ticking steadily on.
My phone lights up.
Aaron
Survived panel, signed a thousand books, and now I’m ‘yearning’ for you.
I bite the inside of my cheek, fingers hovering over the screen before typing.
Me
Yearning is dangerous. Might recommend a cold shower.
Aaron
Or you could come here and make it worse.
Something flutters in my chest, a sensation I immediately try to smother. But images from last weekend flash through my mind.
Me
I’m in the midst of a career implosion, just FYI.
Aaron
Would you like to talk about it? I have time.
Me
It’s fine. Really. I’ll handle it.
His response comes quickly.
Aaron
Remember what you told me in Napa? Even the best lawyers sometimes need a defense team.
Me
Not a lawyer joke, I hope.
Aaron
Never, unless you need to hear one.
Me
Maybe after five more hours of this.
Aaron
Or you could, and hear me out, get on a plane to Dallas and let someone else buy you a drink.
I let that linger, tapping my pen against a legal pad. Out the window, Midtown glows faintly blue and gold, all potential and ambition and trash on the sidewalks. My phone buzzes again.
Aaron
I mean it, Minji. You’re allowed to not ‘handle it’ sometimes.
The next case file sits open before me, but I can’t focus on the words.
His text blurs as I stare at it. The pull toward him feels like an actual physical ache—almost like grief.
But then William’s smug face flashes in my mind, followed by Caleb’s condescending tone.
This office, this desk—I want to set a match to it all.
Yet simultaneously, I need to prove them wrong.
The two desires war inside me, and I’m not sure which one will win.
I power through briefs until my vision blurs, fueled by office coffee that tastes like burnt pennies. The spreadsheet on my monitor glows with client names I’ve color-coded by closing probability. Seven o’clock comes and goes. My temples throb.
Aaron’s message notification pulses on my phone screen, untouched.
At 7:30, I escape the building, summer air gluing my blouse to my back.
I drift home on autopilot, longing for the weekend’s blissful ignorance, for the bubble I shared with Aaron.
My apartment welcomes me with cold air and quiet.
I scrub my teeth, wage war on my gums with floss, and scowl at my own reflection.
“This is nothing,” I tell the woman in the mirror. “You’re Minji Lee, Esq. Self-sufficient since 2009.”
My reflection doesn’t buy it either.
I climb into bed, just after ten, pulling the covers up to my chin, and close my eyes.
Sleep refuses my invitation. Instead, my thoughts spin—William’s smirk, Caleb’s condescension, plane tickets to Taipei, Aaron’s fingers tracing my collarbone, his mouth against my ear, the way he whispered “Minji” when he thought I’d drifted off.
I flip from side to side, sheets twisting around my legs like vines.
My phone lights up at 1:02 AM.
Aaron
I hope you’re asleep. But if you’re not, I’m here.
I don’t answer, but I let the screen burn itself into the darkness, a tiny sun that says I’m not entirely alone, even if I pretend otherwise.
Sleep comes in fragments. At 2:45, I surrender to insomnia, drafting tomorrow’s battle plan in bullet points, then revising it twice before emailing it to myself. I water my withering basil plant until the soil darkens with moisture. It perks up. I don’t.
By 6:20 AM, I’ve brewed coffee strong enough to strip paint, scalded myself pink in the shower, and zipped into my charcoal Armani. On the crowded subway, Aaron’s text replays in my mind. Three words hover, unspoken: I need you. I erase them from my thoughts before they ever reach my thumbs.
By the time I get to the office, my pulse is a live wire, and I am ready for war.