Chapter 5
Nadia had the door open before Miller reached the porch.
“You’re early.” Her mother pulled her into a hug that smelled of rosemary, the kind of embrace that made Miller’s shoulders drop three inches. “Harper bet me you’d be late. Something about a big case keeping you chained to your desk.”
“Harper owes you five bucks.” Miller stepped inside, letting the familiar chaos of her childhood home wash over her.
Books were stacked on every surface, Harper’s motorcycle magazines mixed with Nadia’s gardening catalogs.
The old Persian rug that had survived three decades of family life was in the same place in the living room.
“I left the office at a reasonable hour for once.”
“A miracle.” Nadia took the wine bottle from Miller’s hands and examined the label with theatrical scrutiny. “Oh, this is the good stuff. You must want something.”
“Can’t a daughter bring her mothers decent wine without an ulterior motive?”
“She can. You don’t.”
From the kitchen, Harper’s voice carried through the house. “Is that Miller? Tell her she’s on salad duty. The lettuce isn’t going to wash itself.”
Miller grinned and headed toward the kitchen, Nadia trailing behind her.
The smell hit her before she rounded the corner—roast chicken, herbs, something with garlic that made her stomach growl.
Harper stood at the stove, her silvery hair cropped short, a dish towel thrown over one shoulder like she'd forgotten it was there.
“Hey, kid.” Harper didn’t turn around, just gestured vaguely toward the counter. “Lettuce is there. Spinner’s in the counter.”
“Good to see you, too, Mom.”
“I’ll be delighted to see you once the salad’s done.” But Harper was smiling; Miller could hear it in her voice.
She found the spinner, filled the sink, and started washing romaine lettuce while Nadia uncorked the wine and poured three generous glasses.
This was the rhythm of Sunday dinner: Harper cooking, Nadia supervising, Miller helping where directed.
They’d been doing this since she was old enough to hold a knife safely, and the routine felt like a warm blanket she could wrap around herself.
“So,” Nadia said, handing her a glass and leaning against the counter, “tell us about this case that’s been eating all your time.”
“The Shepry divorce.” Miller shook water off a handful of lettuce. “I mentioned it last week.”
“The billionaire one?” Harper turned from the stove, wooden spatula in hand. “The one that’s been all over the news? The CEO with the”—she made a vague gesture—”cold reputation.”
“Ice queen,” Nadia supplied. “That’s what the press calls her.”
“That’s the one. We’re representing her ex-wife, Valerie.”
Harper raised an eyebrow. “And? How’s it going?”
Miller considered the question while she loaded lettuce into the spinner. The mediation had been five days ago, and she’d spent every one of them buried in discovery prep. “Mediation failed, so we’re heading to litigation. It’ll be a long fight. Their positions are too far apart for a settlement.”
“Sounds expensive.” Harper turned back to the stove, stirring something that sizzled.
“For people like the Sheprys, it’s a rounding error.” Miller cranked the spinner, watching the lettuce whirl. “The real cost is time. This could drag on for months.”
“And how's your client holding up?" Nadia's voice was gentle, the social worker in her always attuned to the human element.
“Valerie’s…determined. She’s been through a lot. Fifteen years of marriage, and by the end—” Miller paused, choosing her words. “Let’s just say I believe her when she says it wasn’t healthy.”
Nadia made a soft sound of understanding, and Harper just nodded.
“What about the other side?” Harper asked. “This ice queen. What’s she like in person?”
Miller’s hand slowed on the spinner. “She’s…not what I expected.”
Nadia tilted her head. “How so?”
“The press makes her sound like this calculating monster, but in person she’s just…controlled. Very controlled. Every word is measured and every expression managed. It’s impressive, actually.”
“You sound impressed,” Nadia observed.
“Professionally, yes. She’s a serious opponent.” Miller transferred the lettuce to a bowl, grateful for the task. “Gerald Bracks is her attorney. He’s been doing this for forty years, but you can tell she’s the one running the show and nothing happens without her approval first.”
“Is she intimidating?” Harper asked.
Miller considered. “Not exactly, more commanding. She knows exactly what she’s doing at all times. During the mediation, she didn’t miss a single detail, and she caught a timeline discrepancy.” She paused. “I challenged her on it, actually, and spoke up during the negotiation.”
“Good for you.” Harper’s approval was evident. “Is Rachel letting you take point?”
“She trusted me to contribute. And Astoria—Ms. Shepry—didn’t back down, but she didn’t dismiss me either. She responded to me directly, like I was worth listening to, not just the second chair.”
There was a brief silence, and Miller looked up to find her mothers exchanging one of their looks, the silent language they shared after thirty years together.
“What?” Miller asked.
“Nothing.” Nadia smiled. “Dinner’s almost ready. Want to help me set the table?”
The dining room table was the same one Miller had done homework on, eaten birthday dinners at, and had countless Sunday meals around.
She knew every scratch and water ring. Tonight, Nadia had put out the good napkins, the ones with the embroidered edges that only came out for holidays and important dinners.
“It’s just a regular Sunday,” Miller said as she set out plates.
“It’s the first nice weekend of spring. That counts as a holiday.” Nadia arranged the silverware beside each plate. “Besides, you’ve been working too hard. You deserve the good napkins.”
Harper appeared with the chicken, golden and fragrant, and they settled into their seats.
The conversation flowed easily: Harper's latest motorcycle restoration project, the '72 Honda CB350-4 she'd been chasing parts for; and Nadia's volunteer work at the LGBTQ+ youth center, where a teenager had come out to accepting parents that week and the whole staff had quietly celebrated.
“That’s wonderful,” Miller said, meaning it. “It must feel good to be part of that.”
“Everyone deserves a safe space to figure themselves out.” Nadia passed her the potatoes. “Speaking of which, how are you, sweetheart? Besides work, I mean. Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I’m fine. Busy, but fine.”
“Dating anyone?” Harper asked, too casually.
Miller sighed. Here it was, the question that surfaced every few months like clockwork. “No. You know I don’t have time right now.”
“You always say that.” Harper cut into her chicken. “You said that when you were finishing law school. You said it your first year at the firm. And you said it when you made it as an associate.”
“I dated Marcus for almost a year.”
“Marcus.” Harper’s tone suggested what she thought of Marcus. “The accountant who collected stamps.”
“There’s nothing wrong with collecting stamps.”
“There’s nothing right with it either.” Harper pointed the tines of her fork at Miller. “He was nice enough, I’ll give you that, but you never seemed…”
“Excited about him?” Nadia offered.
“I was going to say ‘interested,’ but sure, excited works.”
Miller felt the familiar defensiveness rising in her chest. “Not everyone needs fireworks, Mom. Marcus was stable and reliable, easy to be with.”
“Easy isn’t the same as right.” Nadia’s voice was pitched softly. “You dated him for eleven months and never brought him here for Sunday dinner. That tells me something.”
“I was busy—”
“You bring your work stress here. And your victories and frustrations. But you’ve never brought anyone you were dating.” Nadia reached over and squeezed her hand. “I’m not criticizing, sweetheart. I’m just observing.”
Miller didn’t have an answer for that, so she focused on her plate.
The silence stretched just long enough to be noticeable before Harper cleared her throat. “So this Shepry woman, the ice queen. What’s she actually like?”
Grateful for the subject change, Miller considered the question. “Honestly? I’m not sure. I’ve only seen her in one context—across a negotiating table fighting for her future—and that’s not exactly when people show their authentic selves.”
“But you have an impression.”
“I think…” Miller paused, remembering the flicker she’d seen during the mediation.
That split second when Astoria’s mask had slipped and something raw had crossed her face before she’d locked it down again.
“I think ‘cold’ is reductive. She’s guarded, definitely, but guarded isn’t the same as cold. ”
“How so?”
“Cold implies she doesn’t feel things, but watching her during the mediation, there was a moment when Valerie had said something and I saw—” Miller stopped.
Why was she analyzing this so thoroughly?
It was just a professional observation. “I saw a reaction, just for a second, something underneath all those layers of control.”
“Sounds like you were paying close attention,” Harper observed.
“It’s my job to read the opposing party.” Miller heard the slight edge in her own voice and softened it. “Anyway, she’s going to be tough to beat, which is what makes this case interesting.”
“You like the challenge,” Nadia said, and it wasn’t a question.
“I do.” Miller smiling, feeling the truth of it. “The routine cases were getting stale. This one demands everything I’ve got, and I’m grateful for it.”
Her mothers exchanged another look, quicker this time.
“What?” Miller asked again.
“Nothing.” Harper stood to get dessert. “I made apple pie.”
“You made pie? It’s not even a holiday.”
“Keep up, Miller. It’s the first nice weekend of spring.”