Page 9 of Big Daddy

“Big fucking deal. No matter what title you give her, it’s semantics. She’s a secretary. Andthoseare replaceable.”

Pen gets up, plucking the last crumb from his navy-blue pullover. God, add pullovers to the list of things I’ve had enough of.

Davis Pen has worn a plaid dress shirt and solid pullover every single fucking day, hot or cold, rain or shine. And on court days I’m blessed that the pullover stays in the drawer.

But the fucking bolo tie comes out.

Hideous.

Thank God fashion has very little to do with practicing law efficiently and powerfully.

“Ken’s been here for eight years. The new assistant one week. I don’t want to lose either of them.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and smiles, because Davis Pen is a smiler.

The two of us are polar opposites. We understand each other, but most of the time, I don’t think we share much beyondknowledge of the law and our business. But it works, and you don’t fix things that aren’t broken, no matter how strange they may seem.

“Hire yourself an assistant,” he says. “I’ll have Ken set up some interviews for next week.”

“Secretary,” I correct as he pulls the door closed behind him.

Taking the courthouse steps by two, I manage to dodge the barrage of reporters as they try to close in around me, shoving recording devices and notepads in my face. Today’s case was nothing special, nor was it even memorable, not for me, and not for Parker & Pen.

I’ve gone to court a thousand times in my career, and most cases have been like this: Women who marry wealthy assholes who mask themselves as lovable, caring millionaires that just haven’t found love…until her. The woman believes they’ve somehow stumbled upon a diamond in the rough, a secret gem of a man who possesses all of the qualities they thought were extinct and to boot? He’s richer than rich. A few years into the marriage, the wealth is no longer a benefit but the toxic thing that rises up like a vine, wrapping their ankles and feet, keeping them both bound to a place of misery. Because the misery you know is greater than the misery of the unknown—she stays,even though the rose-colored glasses have long since lifted. She’s aware now, that he’s not unique. He’s just another rich asshole who fucks anything wet and warm, who lies and manipulates, and only ever wanted the perfect wife for the perfect photo for the perfect biography for the media. The man in this story is always the same, despite the fact I’ve never litigated against the same man twice.

This man usually threatens that if she leaves, he will make her pay. He will use his power and name to destroy her, and even though there is a prenup, he’ll make sure she gets less than nothing for her egregious act of finally standing up for herself.

Today’s case was a well-loved socialite finally breaking free from her asshole celebrity husband. We slide into the backseat of the town car, the roar of media and reporters dulling to a hush within the safety and confines of the vehicle.

Corinne places her hand on her forehead, and her eyes fall closed as she sighs away a thousand worries, a million or more tears, and a ton of regret. Observing, I watch her change from who she was when she hired me to who she became the moment that gavel hit.

Her old self.

Confident and self-assured.

She opens her eyes, sensing the way I’m staring at her. “Thank you, Quincey,” she finally says.

I got her what she was owed. She stood by a reptile who cheated, lied, and stole; she bore his kids and took care of them; she played his games and posed for photos. And when news broke that he got his secretary pregnant, she decided enough was enough.

I respect her for that, and I won her case for herbecauseof that respect.

I don’t say that to her because I’ve built an air of rigid confidence, and spilling my feelings about her strength andworth to get her what she’s owed isn’t my style. Instead, I roll my lips together and peer out the window as the world tugs by, a blur of color and voices.

“You’re welcome.” I lower the partition and speak to the driver. “Parker & Pen.”

She shoots me a questioning glance.

“Sign the last of the paperwork, then you’re free,” I explain. Nodding to the driver, I add, “he’ll take you wherever you need to go once it's done.”

A peaceful seventeen minutes later and we’re out front of the building, the doorman letting Corinne out of the car. She follows me up in a crowded elevator full of suits and heels, and once inside the firm, I make sure she’s led to the conference room where Kennedy is already waiting with the appropriate paperwork.

After a win, I ritualistically have a drink at my desk. Alone. Reflect on my success and what it’s taken to get here. I wasn’t always unlikeable. I wasn’t always the man that doesn’t give compliments so he doesn’t seem soft and susceptible to emotional manipulation.

I used to be like everyone else. But then I realized I had to harden to win, harden to thrive, harden to grow. Harden, period. That one scotch alone in the dark, looking over the San Francisco skyline—it reminds me that I made the right choices. That everything I’ve done, how hard I’ve pushed and how tightly I’ve run my highly organized life—it’s been worth it.

Pushing open the office door, I quickly close it with my foot, drop my bag to the floor and shrug out of my tailored suit jacket. I hang it near the door, and run my fingers over the sleeve for a moment, the Italian wool soft and supple to my touch. I used to buy suits on clearance when I was just starting out. Department store red tag clearance suits. I remember wiping Brielle’s spit up off one that cost sixty dollars, thinking mygoodsuit was ruined.

Nostalgia hits after every win, and the drink helps numb the emotional cramp of memories. Sinking into my high-back chair, I slide open the bottom drawer, which only holds a glass and a bottle.

With a long, relieved sigh, I fill the glass, and bring it to my lips, my cheeks tingling in delighted anticipation.

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