Page 7 of The Suit

Fifth time’s a charm.

There was a shuffling on the other end of the conference line from those of my team who were still in the office.

“Blake, can you set up a meeting with Duke McMullens in the Corporate division for first thing in the morning?” I closed the door behind me but stayed where I was, standing in the entrance to my suite.

“Yes, boss.”

“And I couldn’t give fuck if he doesn’t have time, tell him he needs to make time.”

“I know, boss. I’ll sort it out.”

I could almost see his pinched expression over the phone, that I dared question his ability, because we both knew he’d make it happen. Seeing as we were currently on the east coast and one hour ahead of Duke in Chicago, I wouldn’t put it past him to schedule a meeting before Duke’s sun was up. But that’s what happened when you worked across timezones.

Blake had been with me for five years, from when I was a third-year associate and he joined Feather Smythe Jones and Partners as a paralegal temp when my former paralegal had called in sick. He spent the entire day pre-empting everything I needed. In less than eight hours he’d made himself completely indispensable, therefore I never let him leave. He was so good at his job I had no doubt people tried to poach him, which was why he was the highest paid paralegal at the firm.

“Good. Once you’ve done that, get some rest, same goes for all of you. Tomorrow’s going to be busy. I need to finish up some stuff tonight for the Restin trial, but I’ll see you all in the morning.”

There were echoes of ‘night boss’ and even though it was gone ten p.m. and I’d told them to clock off, I knew it would be a few more hours before they finished working because that was the team I’d built. They stopped when I stopped.

Over the years since I’d graduated and joined FSJ, I’d honed my reputation. I’d created a purpose from all the hours, days, and weeks I’d spent cramming for exams, pouring over law reviews, papers, journals, notes, and cases, beyond my deep-rooted need to simply be the absolute best. The victor. I’d become the go-to person for the hardest cases, the impossible to win settlements, because I was the person who would always find a way to win. I closed. I delivered under pressure. I’d forged a team who knew I had zero tolerance for stupidity or laziness, and who knew I expected them to put in the hours I did. Becausethat’show we won, and we did win. We made a LOT of money doing it; for the clients, for the firm, and for ourselves.

Which is how I’d found myself leading the Johnson Maynard divorce when I didn’t do divorce cases, and when we already had an entire divorce division made up of over a hundred attorneys. But he was one of the firm’s biggest clients, and he was divorcing with no pre-nup; because who needs a pre-nup when you’re in love, and a penniless student on a full scholarship?

Stupid people, that’s who.

Suffice it to say, since he’d built a business now valued at sixteen point four billion dollars, this divorce was worth a lot of money, and Johnson Maynard did not want part with a cent more than he had to.

I leaned back against the door, only now managing to take the deep breath I’d needed all day yet avoided looking across the suite to the bedroom; I was so desperate to flop onto the enormous bed that if I did, I’d likely stay there until someone sent out a search party. Instead, I dropped my briefcase down, kicked off my heels, and walked over to the drinks cabinet to pour myself a martini. I settled on a large, holding off from making the very large I really wanted, because I still had work to do.

A pang of homesickness twisted in my belly. I hated being away from Chicago even more than I hated the east coast. I’d been in New York for three days, and every single second was a second longer than I had any desire to be here. But thankfully, it would be over soon; I would win this case, finally secure my promotion to partner and head back to the Windy City; only the second place out of the dozens I’d lived that I could legitimately call home.

My martini vanished in two large gulps and I headed into the oversized bathroom, turned on one of the enormous shower heads and stripped while I waited for the room to steam up from the scalding water. I’d like to say there was nothing worse than a shitty hotel room though I knew for a fact that wasn’t true, but at least my firm never skimped on accommodation when its team was working on location, mostly because they charged the clients for it. The entire suite could have fitted at least six of the tiny studio apartments I’d shared with my brother, Jackson, during my early childhood. I shook the thought away before my memories ignored theDanger: No Entrysigns and went down a lane they had no business being on; something which always happened when I was somewhere unfamiliar.

I stepped under the powerful flow of the shower, not allowing myself to register the heat until I was completely submerged, and the stench of the day had begun to wash away. And it was a stench, starting from the momenthe’dwalked into the boardroom.

I shouldn’t have lost my shit today.

I thought over seven years of being apart would have given me an element of control over my reactions; that I would have learned how to school my emotions around him… but I’d given myself too much credit because I never had before and I clearly still couldn’t, even if I did manage it everywhere else.

For some reason my emotions and I had never been able to communicate when it involved this particular individual; because no one –no one- in the history of time had ever gotten under someone’s skin as much as Raferty Latham got under mine. I knew it for a fact. If I could test the theory to prove I was right, I would.

My outburst was two-fold:

First, the three days I’d had to come to terms with the notion I’d be in a room with him again. That’s all I’d had.

Three goddamn days.

When Blake had handed me the files the opposing counsel had sent over, his name may as well have been the only thing written on them - in big black letters - because it was all I saw. I hadn’t believed it at first; itmusthave been a typo. But I’d never been that lucky, because there was no way there were two Raferty Lathams, especially when a compliments slip with the Latham’s insignia – one of the world’s most prestigious law firms - was attached to the paperwork. Double confirmation arrived in the form of the investigator I’d sent to check it out, when he came back with a positive match fortheRafe Latham; my Harvard adversary.

Second, he’d been late. Purposely late, knowing it would fuck me off, because he wasthat muchof a dick.

And don’t even get me started on the ear plugs.

So no matter how much I’d tried to legitimately stay cool, Rafe Latham always managed to turn my internal thermostat up to Death Valley temperature levels, and at the first glimpse of him walking out of the elevator and down the hallway to the boardroom we were in, I knew I’d been wildly unprepared to see him.

As unprepared as I had been our first day of law school.

“Find your opponent, Beulah. Find someone who’ll push you to be the best attorney you can be.”The booming timbre of my adoptive father echoed around my brain, as loudly as the day he’d said it to me - even though he’d been dead ten years.

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