Page 53 of Worth the Fall

"You’re done," I continue, my voice firm and loud enough to ensure it carries into the hallway. "Cameron, I told you before—find another lawyer. I mean it. I’m not working with you anymore. I’ve been polite. I’ve been patient. But this?" I gesture wildly at the crystal pyramid and the faint plume of sage smoke still rising from my mug. "This is the final straw. I’m not your lawyer, your therapist, or your spiritual punching bag. Find someone else!"

Cameron opens his mouth, but no words come out. Jasmine looks like she’s just been told kale is bad for you.

I cross my arms, glaring at them. "You’re banned. Permanently. Now go!"

Cameron finally recovers, straightening his robes with as much dignity as he can muster. "I… I see. Clearly, your energy is not ready for alignment."

Jasmine nods solemnly. "A lesson in letting go, perhaps."

"Out!" I repeat, pointing again.

They shuffle toward the door, looking like scolded children, and I follow them into the hallway to make sure they’re actually leaving.

As they disappear around the corner, I let out a long, frustrated breath, muttering to myself, "Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable."

"Mia?"

The voice startles me, and I spin around to see Linda standing in the hallway, her mouth hanging open like she’s just witnessed a live-action soap opera.

"What?" I ask, smoothing my hair, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism.

Linda doesn’t answer. Her gaze drifts past me, and I follow it, my stomach dropping when I see my boss, Mr. Whitman, standing a few feet away.

And beside him? None other than Celine Ramirez, looking as polished and smug as ever.

For a moment, none of us say anything. The silence stretches unbearably, broken only by the sound of my coffee mug being knocked over on my desk behind me.

Mr. Whitman clears his throat, his expression unreadable but decidedly not pleased. “Miss Mason, I don’t know what I’m interrupting, something you and I will discuss at a later date,” he says through gritted teeth.

Behind me, I hear Linda inhale sharply, no doubt bracing herself for my reaction.

I take a deep breath, plastering on the most professional smile I can manage. “Of course sir, Miss Ramirez,” I attempt to nod politely at both of them.

“Excellent,” he forces a smile, glancing over at Celine. “Miss Mason, we’ll leave you to it for now, miss Ramirez and I will continue discussions in my office.”

“Thanks again sir,” I smile politely at both of them until they walk away. That nagging feeling rushing back, making my stomach flip. I turn and head back into my office, closing the door behind me. As soon as I’m out of sight, I lean against the door and bang my head lightly against it.

"This day," I whisper to myself, "is trying to kill me."

I pace the length of my office, my mind racing. My heels click against the tile, the sound almost drowning out the pounding in my chest. Okay, okay, think, I tell myself. There has to be a way out of this.

Celine Ramirez. Lead attorney. Ethical violations. The words swirl in my head like a toxic cocktail.

If I’m not the lead attorney, then maybe—just maybe—it’s not an ethical violation. Right? If someone else takes the lead and I’m just assisting, it could technically be okay. Maybe.

Except it’s not okay, and I know it. I know it the same way I know that Whitman and the partners will absolutely see this case as my big break—a chance to prove myself, to finally step into the spotlight after years of clawing my way up the firm’s ladder.

And now, because of this, I either have to walk away from the opportunity of a lifetime or—what?—end things with Miguel? Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn.

I stop pacing, pressing the heels of my hands into my temples. "This is so unfair," I mutter to the empty room.

I shouldn’t have to be the one changing my life. I shouldn’t have to decide between my career and the first relationshipthat’s made me feel alive in years. Celine chose this law firm because I work here—I know it. I don’t have proof, but it can’t be a coincidence.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head as I grab my phone off the desk. Maybe if I talk to Miguel, I can figure this out. Maybe he knows something—anything—that can help me make sense of this mess.

I open our text thread and hover over the keyboard. How do I even ask this? I type, delete, and retype a dozen different versions before settling on something straightforward.

Me

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