16. Will
WILL
It’s Friday.
I’m in a meeting with Anton and Janice from BetterHealth.
Janice leans across the desk, tapping her sharp red fingernails on the policy document.
“It’s a slam dunk,” she says, for the fifth time.
I tilt my head. Why are they selling me so hard on how easy this will be? Easy cases are the worst. No challenge, no thrill.
With a dull thud, Janice opens the document somewhere in the middle.
“Honestly, it’s ridiculous they even think they have a case. Everything’s right here.”
I skim the highlighted clause: 124-B: Coverage becomes void if adjustments to prescribed medication dosages exceed the limits specified within 12 months of the incident.
“Upping his dose by ten milligrams three months ago isn’t exactly a smoking gun,” I say.
Janice’s lips press into a bloodless line. “Contracts have to mean something.”
“To lawyers, sure. A jury?” I toss the photo of the victim, mid-forties, broken face, onto the desk. “They won’t care about your contract.”
Anton shifts in his seat. Janice’s grin sharpens, waiting for me to unveil some underhanded strategy.
But I don’t have one.
“My advice: pay him out.”
Anton exhales sharply. Janice’s smile vanishes.
“We’re not paying for advice,” she snaps. “We’re paying for you to fix it.”
I hold up a photo of the man’s daughter, maybe eight, clutching a stuffed rabbit beside her unconscious father. Bandages. Tubes. You’d only know he’s human by the shape. They look, but it barely seems to land. Like they’ve trained themselves not to feel it.
“If he takes this to the press,” I say quietly, “it’ll cost you more than six million in reputation alone.”
Janice waves a hand. “Stick to lawyering. We have our instructions.”
“What’s our max?” I ask.
“3.8,” Anton replies.
Right on cue, the door swings open.
Victoria Scarsguard strides in like the room’s been holding its breath for her. Head-to-toe black, except for those blood-red heels. She tilts her sunglasses with surgical precision, pinning me with an arctic stare.
Fantastic.
“Private negotiation,” she says. “Your office.” Then she’s gone—click-click-click echoing down the hall.
I throw Anton and Janice an apologetic look and follow.
By the time I reach my office, she’s already claimed my chair. Legs crossed. Smug. I bite back the urge to tell her exactly where to shove her theatrics and lean against the desk instead.
“How’s your client?” I ask.
“On oxygen,” she chirps, far too cheerful for the topic. “We’ll take three.”
Three. He deserves at least five.
The thought catches me off guard.
Since when do I care?
I hesitate. “You sure? His medical bills must be—”
“If companies paid out every sob story, there’d be no insurance.” She cocks her head. “Do we have a deal?”
It would be easy to say yes. But something rattles in my chest.
“3.8,” I counter.
Her eyes narrow. “I said three.”
“I’m doing you a favor.” The lie slips out smoothly. “Tell your client you fought for more. Looks better for you.”
A slow, knowing smile curls her lips. Then, deliberately, she spreads her thighs, just enough to flash red lace.
I look away.
“You don’t want me to thank you?” she purrs.
“I’m seeing someone.”
And even if I weren’t, the answer would still be no.
Her grin sharpens. Predatory.
“I won’t tell if you don’t.”
I shake my head, expecting that to be the end of it.
But she leans forward, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“People like us don’t waste time on morals. Are you really going to let some fleeting guilt ruin what could be the best fuck of your life?”
When I don’t reply, she presses.
“Someone I know?”
“Never you mind.”
“Ashamed of her? That’s not a good sign.”
The possessiveness in her tone grates. I’m not ashamed, quite the opposite, but Abigail wants to keep a low profile.
“We’re done here,” I say.
Victoria storms out, heels stabbing the floor like she’s murdering it with every step.
I deliver the terms to Anton and Janice.
Anton blinks. Janice taps her pen against the desk.
Lukewarm reception but they got what they wanted: a clean exit. No messy headlines. No courtroom drama. Just another claim buried in the fine print.
“If you’d heard her first offer,” I say, “you’d be shocked.”
Not a lie.
Janice snaps her briefcase shut. “Then we’re done.”
No handshake. No thanks. Just the squeak of her chair and the click of her heels as they stride out, already mentally onto the next case.
I check my phone.
Allen: Not looking good for her.
Abigail’s across town now, squaring off against Harry Miles.
Last night at her place, she couldn’t stop fidgeting. She only picked at her dinner. It was like she was there, but her mind wasn’t.
The memory makes my jaw tighten.
She told me not to come, but I know her. No matter how it ends, she’ll pretend it didn’t touch her. She’ll smooth her hair, lift her chin, and walk out like nothing happened.
So, I had a friend sit in to keep an eye on things.
Will: Update?
Allen: Waiting on the verdict. But it’s not looking good. Her client lied. Hid evidence. He did it.
Will: How is she?
Allen: Seems fine.
That doesn’t tell us much. Abigail’s always fine. Even when she’s not.
I’ve got meetings. A deposition at two. Important things.
I grab my jacket.
The courthouse clock tower chimes noon as I pull into the plaza.
Perfect timing.
Abigail’s descending the marble steps. Even from here, I can see the tension in her shoulders and the too-careful way she holds herself.
“Fancy meeting you here,” I call as I approach.
She stops mid-step. “What are you doing here?”
Her voice is calm, but the death grip on her briefcase strap betrays her.
“Had a meeting nearby. Finished early.” The lie slips out easily.
“I lost.” She shrugs like it’s nothing.
“Everyone strikes out sometimes.”
“Even you?”
“Except for me,” I joke.
I move closer, drawn by the faint tremor in her lower lip. She retreats a corresponding step, always maintaining our careful distance. Her eyes dart toward a group of lawyers smoking by the pillars.
Right. We’re still a secret.
“I’m parked underground,” I say. “Spot 78D. Come tell me what happened?”
“Nothing worth—”
“Then just a quick hug?” My voice softens. “You look like you need one.”
Her gaze flicks to my chest, lingers, then snaps back up.
A barely perceptible nod.
“78D,” she says, brushing past me.
The concrete garage swallows sound, each footstep echoing as I wait.
Five minutes. Ten.
I’m beginning to think she’s bailed when the passenger door finally opens.
She slides in like a shadow, her professional armor cracking the moment the door shuts.
I don’t hesitate.
One arm around her shoulders, the other cradling the back of her head as she collapses against me.
For three heartbeats, she remains rigid, then shatters with a shuddering exhale.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispers into my shirt.
As the story spills out. The deleted posts, the digital paper trail, her client admitting to it on the stand. I stroke her hair with deliberate calm.
Her voice hitches when she describes the moment the defense dropped their evidence bomb.
“You couldn’t have known,” I say into her hair, catching the faint scent of coconut shampoo.
“Neil’s going to kill me. I’m surprised he hasn’t—”
Her phone vibrates. Neil Strauss flashes across the screen.
Her body locks. Her hands tremble.
“I can’t. Not now,” she says.
No one should be this afraid of their boss.
I pluck the phone from her grip and answer. She lunges, but I hold it beyond her reach.
“Strauss,” I snap into the receiver.
A beat of silence. “Who the hell is this?”
“Abigail’s legal counsel.”
Her eyes flare with panic.
“Put. Her. On.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“Not a chance. And watch your tone with her. Unless you’re looking for consequences.”
Abigail claws for the phone. I catch her wrist, press a kiss to her knuckles—
Silence. The line goes dead.
Coward.
Abigail’s gaze locks onto mine. Not gratitude. Not relief. Just pure horror.
“You absolute moron,” she says. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
I seize her trembling hands, turn them palm-up between us.
“Look at this. Tell me this is nothing. Tell me this is normal.”
She tries to wrench free. I hold firm.
“It’s just stress. Courtroom adrenaline.”
“Bullshit.”
She sags back into the seat. Defeated. She knows I’m right.
“I’ll handle him. Every email, every call. It goes through me now.”
“What, you’ll follow me to work?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
The fight drains from her. The silence stretches, thick and heavy. Then she folds. Her forehead presses into my chest like she’s trying to weld us together. The raw trust in that gesture sends something primal rushing through my veins.
“You finished early?” Her words are muffled against my shirt.
“Yeah.”
“Take me somewhere no one knows us. I need a drink.”
The keys are already in my hand.
“I know just the place.”