Forty-One

It arrives when I'm walking into the office the next morning.

From: [emailprotected]To: [emailprotected]Subject: Staffing UpdatesAll,On behalf of the partners, I'm thrilled to announce the updated Stafford team. Please extend your congratulations to Joshua Bledsoe, who will be on retainer under my guidance. This opportunity is well-deserved.-Frank Cavendish, Managing Partner

I stop in my tracks in the lobby, re-reading the email once, twice—ten fucking times. My throat is tightening, my pulse is skittering like I've never experienced before, and there's this obnoxious ringing in my ears.

What the actual fuck.

My feet carry me into the elevator and through the hallways, and everything surrounding me is a crowded blur, a mess of noise and colors, until I reach the safety of my office.

Frank is already here.

He faces me when I enter and raises his chin, a smirk blooming on his lips. "Morning." Last night's contrite, confused expression—all the hurt and disappointment—is noticeably absent from his face. The only thing there is that motherfucking I deserve this smirk.

"What the fuck is this?" I demand, holding up my phone. "You didn't even warn me."

"The Stafford decision? I did," he replies, raising a shoulder. "Didn't I ask you if you knew what you were doing back in St. Michaels?"

It takes every bit of composure in me to slide my phone into my pocket instead of shoving it into his mouth. "Look," I begin, "you've taught me a hell of a lot over the years, but the thing you've drilled into my head thousands of times is: Business isn't personal, so don't be personal when it comes to business. This is looking real fucking personal, Frank."

"You're telling me it wasn't personal last night when you threatened to take everything I love?" He tilts his head to the side. "Hypocrisy doesn't suit you, Lander."

"We've both said worse shit to people who pay us millions of dollars for legal counsel. You didn't have to take Stafford from me."

"You think I had something to do with it?" he questions, jabbing his finger into his chest. "Your girlfriend, the one you just had to protect, is the reason this happened to you. Someone sent videos of her to Waits." He digs into his pocket for his phone before holding it up. "He got these weeks ago, well before she came on to me in St. Michaels."

My eyes narrow at the phone. There's a still of a video on Frank's screen: Valeria in a black bodysuit.

I keep my expression flat. Obviously, he's lying about Valeria coming on to him, but he's also lying about the timeline since the image is clearly from last night's stream. He must have watched it after our fight, the fucking bastard.

"Can you imagine if a client got a hold of that?" he goes on. "Lan, I'm just protecting you like I vowed to your father I would. We can still turn this around, get Stafford."

"Bullshit. You sent an all-staff email."

His shoulders rise. "I can take it back. I can do whatever I want. Do you want Stafford?"

My stomach flips at the prospect and I know I'm pathetic for having this gut reaction, but I can't help what my body does, like I can't help loving Valeria. Still, I know better than to trust an offer that sounds too good to be true.

"You don't do anything for free," I mutter, dreading the next part. "What would you want in exchange?"

"Ditch her," he answers, and the words cut through the space between us like a blade. "I'll open another spot for you, but I want that girl gone."

All my life, I'd seen and heard the cliché of blood running cold, but I never understood it. For the first time, I understand completely.

Swallowing hard, I try to halt the tingle of unease creeping up my spine. "There's no catch. All I have to do is break up with Valeria and you'll give me Stafford."

"Well, that," he confirms, "as well as vow that my son and my wife will never hear about what happened in St. Michaels. If your father were here, he'd tell you to pick Stafford. Sadly, he's not here and you're all that's left of him, Lander. Are you going to throw away your father's legacy on a girl you just met?"

I know better than to dignify a rhetorical question with a response.

"He poured everything into you. He was so proud of you. A thousand guys looked up to your father, but you were the one who mattered most to him. Hell, you're the one who matters most to me."

"I love her," I admit, detesting how Frank is the first one to hear it. "Doesn't that count for something?"

"Last month, she didn't even want to be with you." Frank takes a step forward and clasps his hand on my shoulder. "You were born for this. Embrace your legacy and don't let anyone else get in your way."

He's maniacal enough to leave, brushing past me, without waiting for a response.

Now alone, standing in an office that once belonged to my father—an office I've spent countless hours in, I do the only thing that makes sense.

I throw up in my trashcan.