Page 88 of Do You Take This Man

I shook my head as I clicked to open a browser window. I’d buried myself in work so I didn’t have to see messages from Lear, or more likely, no messages.

“I guess you’re still a draw for the press... someone attempting to get a shot of you at a wedding this weekend found Dina Mayfield instead.”

I skimmed the results, the emotions from Saturday night feeling raw again at the memory. “I saw her there, but what does that have to do with the case?”

“Photo revealed her there with the head of the Avente Foundation’s board.” Eric leaned forward and glanced at my screen just as I clicked on the article. He didn’t wait for me to finish reading. “The paper got the photo and uncovered a source saying they’ve been having an affair for almost three years.”

I kept skimming and muttered, “Shit.” The article went on to cite a source that said Ms. Mayfield had pretended to reconcile with her husband to gain leverage for their divorce, wanting to be the sole connection to the foundation. I looked up and met Eric’s gaze. “It’s bad, but I don’t understand why you were in the meeting and I wasn’t.”

“She blames you for the photo. You doing the weddings and drawing press interest.” Eric’s expression softened. “Which isn’t fair, but she insisted you not be involved in her case anymore.”

That chill expanded from my spine to my entire body, and I returned my gaze to my screen, ashamed. I’d poured so much time into this case, invigorated by the complexities, interested in the couple, and felt proud Gretchen had picked me, and now the client blamed me. On some level, I knew that was bullshit, but on another level, I still knew I was off the case.

“I knew you’d want a heads-up,” Eric said, tapping my desk. “I’mgoing to step in with Gretchen. Can you catch me up later this afternoon?”

Gretchen knocked on my door, her silhouette imposing outside the wall of frosted glass, and I nodded at Eric.

“Come in,” I said, steadying my voice. Gretchen looked professional, composed, and pissed. It was in the set of her mouth, which was different from her normal assessing expression.

“I’ll leave you to it,” Eric said, giving us both a nod.

The definitiveclickof the door was the only sound in the room besides my pounding heartbeat, and Gretchen took the seat across from me, letting the silence hang.

“I assume Eric told you what happened,” she said. “Please catch him up on your work this afternoon. We’ll be pivoting our strategy now.”

“Sure.” I swallowed. “Gretchen, I’m sorry. I didn’t know press would be anywhere near that wedding.”

She held up a palm. “You didn’t make Dina Mayfield have an affair, lie to her husband, or touch the man in public where a photographer could catch it. Like me, you advised her to tell us everything. She didn’t.”

I knew what was coming.

“But we don’t represent people because they do the right thing.”

I added, “We represent them because they’re our clients.”

Gretchen nodded. “And this wedding officiant thing has compromised your ability to represent her. I know you agreed to do this to keep some of our other clients happy, and that you’re winding down, but this needs to end immediately. You’ve asked me to help guide you in your career. My guidance is to wrap up what you need to in the next week and get out of these weddings.”

I nodded. “I will. I have a small one on Saturday—it’s not for a client—but I’ll cancel the rest.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry, Gretchen.”

“I know, and you need to fix it. You’re off this case, but you’re a talented attorney.” She leveled me with a stare. It wasn’t cold, but she was studying me. “Normally, I don’t involve myself in the personal lives of our attorneys outside of it affecting the firm, and this does not affect your work, but that photo revealed more than just Dina Mayfield. Are you seeing Lear Campbell?”

I flushed, and heat spread across my face.

She shook her head. “Never mind. You don’t need to answer that, and I shouldn’t have asked. But, for what it’s worth, I’ve known him for a very long time. I’d hate to see him hurt.” She stood and rapped the corner of my desk. “You’re tough like me, I think. Sometimes we hurt people we don’t mean to.”

The sound of her delicate knuckles against the polished wood added an emphatic punctuation to the sentence.

When the door closed again, I pressed my fingertips to my temples.

No Lear. No Mayfield case. And I had given the person I looked up to most at work reason to believe I would hurt her friend. Her friend Ihadhurt.

That thread of guilt I’d felt at the wedding grew thicker in my veins.

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