Chapter 25
Harley
Justice isn’t a blind goddess with a set of scales.
She’s a tired woman in a beige cubicle with a broken stapler and a stack of paperwork.
In this office, justice is a dogfight. Scrappy, loud, and it usually ends with someone crying over a three-hundred-dollar security deposit.
I sit across from Mrs. Rodriguez, our knees nearly touching because the consultation room was designed for people who don’t require personal space.
“He says the radiator is fine, Harley,” Mrs. Rodriguez whispers, her voice a fragile thing. “He says the ice on the inside of the window is just decoration. But my grandson, he’s coughing. He’s coughing that deep sound again.”
I glance at the file. The landlord is a name I’ve seen before—a shell company owned by a larger firm that probably has its headquarters in a building my ex-fiancé helped design. The irony is a bitter pill, but I’ve learned to swallow it without water.
“The ice isn’t decoration, Mrs. Rodriguez. It violates the municipal code.” I lean forward, putting my hand on the table. “We’re filing for an emergency injunction. We’re going to force him to turn the heat up or we’re going to start escrowing your rent.”
I say ‘we,’ but I mean the lawyers in our office.
She looks at me, her brown eyes searching mine for a lie. I give her the truth instead—it’s the only thing I have.
I reach for my coffee mug, a chipped ceramic thing that says, “Social Workers: Because Even Superheroes Need a Day Off”. It was a gift from Sarah, my office-mate who handles domestic violence cases.
Before the mug can reach my lips, the door flies open.
Sarah bursts in, looking like she just ran a marathon through a rainstorm. Her hair is sticking out in three different directions, and her face is the color of a ripe tomato. She’s gasping for air, her hand clutching the doorframe.
“Harley,” she wheezes. “You…you need to come to the front. Now.”
“I’m in the middle of a consult, Sarah,” I say, my voice firm. “Is it an emergency?”
“Forty thousand dollars,” Sarah says, her voice rising to a pitch that makes the fluorescent lights flicker somehow. “An anonymous donor called in. Forty thousand dollars, Harley. Specifically for our housing legal aid fund. To cover filing fees and expert witnesses for the winter eviction block.”
My mug halts mid-air. Forty thousand dollars.
To the Thompsons, that’s a weekend in the Hamptons.
It’s the cost of the centerpieces for the wedding that ended with me walking into a rainstorm.
To this office, it’s a miracle. It’s thirty families who won’t spend January on a sidewalk.
The difference between Mrs. Rodriguez’s grandson breathing clean air or ending up in an ER with pneumonia.
Mrs. Rodriguez looks between us, her hands trembling. “Is that…for us?”
“It’s for the fund, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say, though my mind is already racing, scanning a list of names. A list of one name. “Who made the donation?”
Sarah shakes her head, finally catching her breath.
“That’s the thing. ‘The Foundation for Structural Integrity,’ or something like that.
They had explicit instructions: completely anonymous.
They wouldn’t even give a contact name for the tax receipt.
They just wanted to make sure the money went to your specific caseload. ”
Structural integrity.
The phrase hits me like a bucket of cold lake water.
It’s a term architects use. It’s what Skyler talked about when he was trying to explain why the mansion’s foyer was a masterpiece.
Memories. That’s all it is. Skyler’s not the donor, and I need to stop thinking about him.
It can’t be, because Skyler avoids what makes him uncomfortable.
It’s why I don’t fully believe he’s changed and has left his corporate life behind.
Once things get tough, he’ll go right back to his Thompson life.
I set the mug down on the desk. My fingers are steady, but the rest of me feels like it’s vibrating.
“A foundation,” I murmur. “And they specified the housing fund?”
“To the dollar,” Sarah says, her grin threatening to split her face in half. “Mrs. Miller is nearly having a stroke in the accounting office. We can hire that lead inspector now, Harley. The one for the Delgado building.”
I turn back to Mrs. Rodriguez and smile. “We’re going to get that heat fixed, Mrs. Rodriguez.” And this time, the optimism isn’t a professional tool. “In fact, I think we’re going to get a whole lot of things fixed.”
I finish the meeting with a renewed focus that scares even me.
I draft the injunction papers at a speed that makes my keyboard smoke.
Mrs. Rodriguez leaves twenty minutes later, her shoulders an inch higher, her manila folder tucked under her arm.
She thanks me in Spanish, a quiet blessing that settles in the corners of the room.
When she’s gone, the adrenaline ebbs, leaving behind a cold, sharp curiosity.
I walk down the hallway, the linoleum peeling in places, to my personal office.
It’s a grand title for what is essentially a glorified closet located between the breakroom and the supply cabinet.
My desk is a battered metal thing salvaged from a school auction.
If I move my chair too far back, I hit the filing cabinet.
If I lean too far forward, I’m in the hallway.
I pull out my phone. I haven’t checked his social media in months. I haven’t looked at the business journals. I’ve lived in a self-imposed exile from Lake Forest, and it’s been the healthiest thing I’ve ever done. But ‘structural integrity’ is too specific a clue to ignore.
I type the name of the foundation into a search engine. Nothing. It’s a shell. A legal entity designed to move money without leaving footprints.
And as I look at the stack of folders on my desk—real lives, real problems—I realize it doesn’t matter who signed the check. Whether it’s Skyler trying to be a man or just a glitch in the universe’s cruelty, the money is real. The heat will stay on. The kids will breathe.
I lean back and close my eyes, letting the hum of the office wash over me. Outside my window, all I can see is a red brick wall and a slice of gray Chicago sky. It’s a narrow view, constrained and unpolished.
But it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m halfway through a housing affidavit when the scent of Chanel No. 5 hits my office.
It’s a violent intrusion. In this building, the air usually smells of industrial-grade floor cleaner, damp coats, and the occasional whiff of desperation. Elaine Thompson’s perfume is different.
I keep typing.
“This office is…quaint,” a voice says.
It’s a voice like a silver bell wrapped in barbed wire.
Elaine Thompson is standing in my doorway, and the space suddenly feels like it’s shrinking.
She’s wearing a tailored cream suit that probably costs more than the annual budget for our office supplies.
Her hair is a sculptural masterpiece of champagne blonde, and her pearls are large enough to be used as weaponry.
“Elaine,” I say, keeping my voice flat. No surprise, no deference.
I don’t offer her a chair, mostly because the only other chair is covered in stacks of the municipal code.
“I’m surprised the GPS in your Mercedes could even find this part of the city.
Did you get lost on the way to the charity gala? ”
She steps inside. But rather than answer the jab, she’s too busy looking for an uncluttered surface to rest her leather handbag on. In the end, she settles for holding it against her hip.
“I’m here because of Skyler.” Her eyes snap to mine, sharp and cold as diamonds. “This little…rebellion of his has gone on long enough. I know you’re the one whispering in his ear. I know you’re the reason he’s currently living in a hovel and playing at being a common laborer.”
I lean back in my groaning chair and fold my arms. “I haven’t spoken to Skyler in weeks, Elaine.
The last time I saw him, he was leaving my father’s porch after I told him that forgiveness doesn’t mean a second chance.
If he’s living in a hovel, that’s his choice.
Maybe he just likes the way the air tastes when it’s not being filtered through your approval. ”
Elaine’s mouth thins into a line of practiced disappointment. “Don’t be tedious. Skyler is a Thompson. He has a legacy. He has a firm. And he has a wedding to attend.”
“Really?” I raise an eyebrow. “Is he the groom? Because the last time I checked, he was pretty busy swinging a hammer for people who don’t know his last name.”
She steps closer, her perfectly manicured nails tapping an impatient rhythm against the clasp of her bag.
“He is behaving like a child, and I know you’re the one holding the leash.
Stop harassing him, Harley. Let him move on.
Let him come home to the life we’ve prepared for him.
You’ve had your fun; you’ve had your little moment of drama at the country club. Now it’s time to give him back.”
Had my fun?
A laugh bubbles up, but I keep it contained.
“I blocked him after the wedding, so I haven’t sent a text, made a call, or even checked his Instagram. I’m busy, Elaine. I don’t have time to manage your son’s mid-life crisis. If he isn’t coming home, it’s not because I’m holding him back.”
Her face flushes, a dull red creeping up her neck, ruining the porcelain perfection of her makeup. She looks around the room again, her lip curling.
“Is this really what you wanted?” she asks, gesturing to the peeling wallpaper and the brick wall outside.
“This squalor? This…menial existence? I’d be careful if I were you, Harley.
This building looks like it hasn’t been inspected in decades.
I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a bedbug infestation.
Or black mold…though, I suppose you’re used to that, aren’t you? ”
The reference to the mold—the catalyst that forced us into her stupid mansion, the beginning of the end—is a violent strike. She says it with a triumphant little glint in her eyes, expecting me to flinch. To remember the shame of being the poor girl who brought rot into their pristine world.
But I just smile. It’s a slow, relaxed expression that clearly catches her off guard.
“The mold was in the walls, Elaine. Just like the rot in your family,” I say. “But the thing about mold is that once you expose it to the light, it dies. I’m doing just fine here. I like the bedbugs; they have more personality than the people at your country club.”
Elaine’s grip on her bag tightens until her knuckles go white. She looks like she wants to slap me, but that would require touching someone beneath her tax bracket.
“You’re a spiteful, hateful little girl,” she hisses. “You think you’ve won because you’ve turned him against us. But Skyler will tire of this. And when he does, Amanda will be waiting.”
Lily had told me that a friend of a friend of a friend got an invitation in the mail from Skyler’s parents. I believed it for a hot second, but quickly dismissed it. How? Because I may have checked Amanda’s social media and couldn’t find a single photo of her and Skyler together.
“Wait,” I say, leaning forward. I catch her gaze and don’t let go.
“I thought Skyler was marrying Amanda, anyway? Didn’t you send out the invitations months ago?
The ‘Thompson-Davis’ union? I assumed the ceremony had already happened.
Surely a woman of your efficiency wouldn’t let a little thing like the groom’s absence stop a business merger. ”
The sarcasm in my tone lingers as Elaine’s composure shatters.
Her hand flies to her throat, her fingers fumbling with her pearls. Her eyes dart away, searching for an exit that isn’t there. For a fleeting second, the great Elaine Thompson looks human. Frantic.
“The…the date was moved,” she stumbles, her voice losing its silver edge. “We decided a longer engagement was more appropriate, given the circumstances. We want to ensure everything is perfect for their special day. I came here to ensure you wouldn’t do anything to…to ruin it.”
I watch her closely. The way her breath is shallow. The way her eyes won’t meet mine.
The truth hits me with a warmth that has nothing to do with the office heater. Skyler’s been saying no to her, repeatedly, until she was desperate enough to come to a social services office in a dangerous neighborhood to beg his ex-fiancée to let him go.
He’s really doing it. He’s finally standing on his own feet.
Good for him.
“He’s not coming back, Elaine,” I say, and my voice is almost kind. “And it has nothing to do with me. You’ve lost him. Not to me, but to himself.”
“We shall see.” She turns on her heel, her movements jerky and unnatural. “Enjoy your hovel, Harley. I’m sure it suits you perfectly.”
I lean back and let my shoulders drop. A small, satisfied smile plays on my lips.
I realize then that I don’t hate him anymore. I don’t even resent him.
He didn’t save me, and I didn’t save him. We just pushed each other toward the exits, and now we’re both out in the air, breathing for the first time.
It’s not love—not the kind that builds a home and shares a bed—but it’s respect. And in the world I live in now, respect is the more valuable currency anyway.