Page 1 of All Twerk, No Play

"Call Me Maybe," Carly Rae Jepsen

Victoria

“AmIhallucinating?Ordid you just agree to move from San Francisco to a small city in upstate New York to start a law firm with your ex-boyfriend?” Mallory Clarke sidled up beside me on the ugly bungalow’s front porch, her blonde hair glinting in the waning winter light.

I traced my name on the thick business card that her brother Alexander printed to pitch starting our own law firm, letters etched in copperplate:Victoria S. Blackstone, Esq., Founding Partner: Blackstone & Clarke, Attorneys at Law.

“Yes, I did.” I confidently countered Mallory’s skepticism, concealing my hesitation. She hadn’t been there for the infuriating realization that the law firm where I worked for ten years passed me over for the partnership I deserved, offering it instead to Alexander. Those stodgy old men wanted someone tall, dark, and handsome: the innovative Don Draper to their aging Bert Cooper, the charismatic Harvey Specter to their seedy Daniel Hardman.

Of course Alexander fit their expectations; I made him that way.

I’d spent a decade cultivating him into a corporate sex icon, his image complimentary to mine so that when we eventually ousted our bosses to take over their firm, we would shine on the cover of Forbes together with the headline ‘Big Law’s First Couple.’

He would wear a flawlessly tailored suit with a cornflower tie to accentuate his eyes. My blue sheath dress would match perfectly, a striking contrast to my red hair, and of course, I’d choose my lucky Jimmy Choos. The article would showcase our law school introduction and our reputation for ruthless negotiations. It would mention who I’m wearing—probably Armani, but the stylist might talk me into Chanel to embody those East Coast Jackie O vibes.

I would scoff in the interview that it doesn’t matter what brand I wear.

It does.

Growing up, I’d done my homework in the executive suites of my family’s Lower Manhattan real estate headquarters, under the auspices of mounted magazine covers featuring my grandfather, Richard Sinclair. His judgmental glare monitored my studies fromHarvard Business Review, Bloomsburg, Forbes, Money, The Economist… he’d brokenFortune’s record by appearing six times.

Since I was 12, Richard—never ‘Grandpa’—planned for me to take the helm as his successor, preparing me to see my face on all those magazine covers.

When I left the company at 23, I vowed to earn that success apart from Richard’s legacy.

Researching business magazine covers revealed a clear trend: Almost exclusively white men in finance, law, real estate, or tech start-ups. Even with a push for diversity, like Fortune adding their annual Power 50 Women feature, women graced the cover less than a quarter of the time.

But I found a loophole.

That wall at headquarters featured one cover without Richard’s face: my parents on the cover ofNew York Magazinewith the title “The Future of New York Real Estate.” Dad wore a plain suit and stoic expression. Mom’s elbow rested on his shoulder, her red hair cascading over his shoulders, mouth tilted like she was seconds from breaking out into laughter.

Women like my mom were more likely to get the nod if they were half of a power couple. Harvard-educated corporate lawyer Michelle Robinson was unknown, but when she married Barack? Everyone recognized the Obamas.

So I orchestrated a power couple, with Alexander as my perfect counterpart. When people named power couples, we’d be in the top tier: William and Kate, George and Amal, John and Jackie … Alexander and Victoria.

Move over, Beckhams, there’s a new Victoria in town.

But he was neglecting his role in my plans.

Mallory lifted her thumb over her shoulder. “You’re cool that he asked you to move here, where you know almost nobody … and now he’s making out with his girlfriend?”

Through the window, Alexander’s arms wrapped around a beautiful woman’s slim waist.

Grace. His newest distraction.

When his father had a heart attack right before Christmas, Alexander flew home to his backwoods hometown of Saratoga Springs, about 200 miles north of New York City, and fell in love with the hospital social worker.

Of course he had, the sentimental fool.

She seemed smart, pretty, sweet … and honestly? Boring.

He returned to San Francisco devastated. His familiar irrational mood swings were accompanied by zoning out in meetings and emerging from his office with red-rimmed eyes. Three weeks later, starting this firm was his stupid romantic grand gesture to win her back.

I’d never seen him heartbroken, not even during our breakup. After seven years together, proposal imminent, I brought him to a family wedding.

The next day he dumped me.

I’d assumed after his temper tantrum, he would beg for my forgiveness, so I gave him the key to the apartment next door—which I’d bought to eventually take down a wall and expand my place.

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