a fresh start, my ass

Monday morning, Rafael Alejandro Klein decided his new school needed him more than I did. We’d barely gotten out of the car before he pulled his hand out of mine and started studying the redbrick preschool building on the Upper East Side with great interest.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m going in.”

“Wonderful. But listen to Mami first.” I bent down to straighten the collar of his white polo beneath his navy sweater. His little belly stuck out, and the black bangs I’d carefully combed this morning were already falling over his forehead again. “If you need to use the bathroom, tell Miss Olivia. If someone takes your toy, don’t immediately resort to violence. And please don’t tell your friends you got shot.”

“I’m not violent, Mami.”

“You hit a cardboard box with a golf club yesterday.”

“That was a bad guy.”

“And you fell off the couch. You did not get shot.”

“Superman got shot.”

“Superman also listens to his mother.”

Rafael sighed, then turned to Tara, who was standing beside me holding his backpack. “Tara, Mami talks too much.”

“Tell me about it, sweetheart.”

I looked at Tara. She grinned.

This preschool admitted students through a selection process involving parent interviews, developmental assessments, and recommendations. The building had an enclosed courtyard, tall windows, and a playground that looked more expensive than my first car. Somehow, after putting us through that entire process, they still accepted Rafael.

I respected the institution’s courage.

Since it was his first day, Tara was allowed to stay with him in the classroom during the transition period. The school had special arrangements for registered nannies, which I was grateful for because I had to be at the office this morning.

“LEO!” Rafael suddenly let go of my hand when he spotted a blond little boy and a girl with braids waving at him from outside the classroom. “ABBY!”

“EL! I brought the dinosaur!” the little girl shouted.

“REALLY?”

Within seconds, all three of them were huddled around a green plastic dinosaur.

I turned to Tara. “He knows them?”

“From yesterday’s welcome playdate. He spent almost two hours playing with Leo.”

“He told me yesterday he didn’t like this school.”

“He said he didn’t like waking up early.”

“Oh.” I watched Rafael, who was now using both hands to demonstrate an explosion. “Why didn’t I know about Leo and Abby?”

“You were arguing with the furniture company about those two missing dining chairs.”

Right. I’d managed to get the delivery f*e refunded and a fifteen percent discount. A productive Sunday.

Miss Olivia greeted us outside the classroom and went over the schedule, lunch, and today’s activities with Tara while I tried to get the attention of my son, who apparently had an entire social life I knew nothing about.

“Rafael Alejandro Klein.”

He finally turned around. “What?”

I crouched down and opened my arms. “I have to go to work. Give me a kiss.”

He quickly kissed my cheek. “Bye.”

“That’s it? No hug?”

Rafael glanced at Leo, who was still waiting for him. “Mami, I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what, sweetheart?”

“School.”

“Well, education is very important.” I pulled him in for one last hug, but he lasted about two seconds before wriggling free and patting my shoulder with his little hand.

“Okay, Mami. You can go now. Don’t worry. Tara’s here.”

I slowly stood up.

Four years of carrying him, giving birth, breastfeeding, changing diapers, sitting through fevers, and cleaning up vomit. And now I was being dismissed by a tiny man who couldn’t even tie his own shoes.

“Fine. Have fun.” I straightened his sweater one more time. “Try not to make your teacher call Mami before lunch. And don’t eat glue.”

Rafael frowned. “Why?”

“Because it’s glue.”

“Oh.” He seemed to seriously consider that information, which worried me a little.

Tara finally led him inside, but before disappearing into the classroom, Rafael turned around and waved.

“BYE, MAMI! LOVE YOU!”

I immediately smiled. “Love you too, baby!”

“GO WORK!”

All right, then. I left before he called security.

>>> 

Thirty-five minutes later, I arrived at Wexler, Hart & Vale with coffee in hand and a newfound appreciation for childcare professionals. Rafael might have kicked me out of his school, but at least there were still adults who were professionally obligated to appreciate my existence.

Wexler, Hart & Vale had offices in Manhattan, Washington, and Boston, with a matrimonial and family law division that was fairly well known for handling wealthy people’s divorces. The kind of people who owned three houses, two yachts, and bank accounts in the Cayman Islands that they believed their spouses had absolutely no business knowing about.

My favorite kind of clients, obviously.

After clearing security, I took the elevator up to the thirty-second floor, checking my reflection in the doors on the way. My dark brown hair fell neatly past my shoulders, my ivory silk blouse was tucked into black tailored trousers, and a perfectly cut blazer completed the outfit I’d spent twenty minutes putting together this morning.

“Miss Klein! Welcome to New York!” The receptionist greeted me as soon as I stepped off the elevator, followed by Daniel Wexler, who emerged from the hallway wearing a huge smile.

“Maya! You finally made it.”

“I’m starting to think this transfer was just an excuse for you guys to jack up your clients’ bills.”

“Then we picked the right person.” He gave me a quick hug. “Washington’s losing one of its best.”

“Washington still has plenty of lawyers.”

“Not many who can get three opposing attorneys to request a recess in a single morning.”

“They had communication issues.”

Daniel laughed, then led me past several associates I already knew from two major cases I’d worked on with the New York team. They welcomed me enthusiastically, including one attorney who raised his coffee cup and said, “Glad you’re on our side now, Klein.”

“Keep your assets disclosed, Bennett.”

“Jesus. It’s nine in the morning.”

“Fraud doesn’t sleep.”

Daniel laughed again before leaving for a meeting, while I continued down the hallway toward the corner office at the far end. Two walls of glass, a view of Manhattan, and a brand-new nameplate on the door.

MAYA KLEIN

Senior Associate | Matrimonial & Family Law

Five years ago, my name was outside the office of a CEO who considered my schedule his personal property. Now I had my own office, a law degree, and an income good enough to make Mamá stop asking if I needed money.

I opened the door.

“WELCOME!”

Four people practically jumped to their feet at once, making me stop short and nearly spill my coffee. One of them dropped a stack of papers, while a woman with long black hair quickly bent down to pick them up.

A bouquet of white flowers, five cups of coffee, and a large box of pastries were already waiting on the table beside the couch.

I raised an eyebrow. “Did somebody die?”

“No! God, no.” The woman immediately straightened up and offered me her hand with a nervous smile. “Raquelle Morgan. I’m your new assistant.”

“Hi, Raquelle.”

“Hi. I’ve read every article about you.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Not in a weird way.” She laughed, then introduced the other three: Nina Park, a junior associate who’d been with the firm for two years; Elliot Brooks, a paralegal with glasses; and Jules Bennett, a case manager who would be helping with administrative work and case coordination.

“So you guys all came in early to welcome me?”

“Yeah,” Nina said.

“With flowers and five coffees?”

Elliot raised his hand. “I ordered the coffee.”

Raquelle quickly opened the box on the table. “And pastries. From Marlow & Rye, this really popular café a block over. The line usually goes out the door.”

There were almond croissants, pain au chocolat, raspberry Danishes, cinnamon rolls, and a pistachio pastry that looked very expensive.

I looked at all five of us, then smiled awkwardly. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Why?” Raquelle immediately panicked. “Are you allergic to something? We asked HR, but they said there wasn’t any allergy information in your file, and I actually wanted to order more, but Nina said five would be enough because there are five of us…”

“Raquelle.”

“Yeah?”

“Breathe.”

She immediately closed her mouth.

I chuckled, set down my bag, and took an almond croissant from the box. “I’m not allergic to pastries. If I ever die because of a croissant, please make sure my obituary says something more respectable.”

Elliot laughed, while Raquelle finally looked a little more relaxed when I took a bite of the croissant.

“Okay, this is really good. Thank you, guys.”

“You’re welcome,” Nina said with a big smile.

We spent the next few minutes talking about work, the firm’s filing system, and our ongoing cases. Nina explained how the team divided up research assignments, Elliot showed me how to access the financial databases, and Jules told me IT had already set up my laptop and all the access I needed.

Raquelle sat across from my desk with an open notebook. I liked notebooks.

“Okay,” I said, setting the rest of my croissant on a napkin. “What do we have?”

Raquelle immediately sat up straighter. “Actually, there’s a case that’s been waiting for you to get here.”

I looked up from my computer screen. “Already?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t even know where the bathroom is on this floor yet.”

“Down the hall, on the right.”

“Excellent. Now I’m ready for litigation.”

She smiled, then opened the navy folder in her lap. “This client requested a consultation about three weeks ago. We initially offered her a few other senior attorneys, but she turned them down.”

I leaned back in my chair. “Why?”

“She specifically asked for you.”

I picked up my coffee. “Smart woman.”

“She read an article about the Harrington divorce you handled in Washington. Then she contacted the firm and said she was willing to wait until your transfer was finalized.”

I gave a small nod.

The Harrington case. One of the most exhausting divorces of my career, mostly because the husband believed owning fourteen shell companies was a hobby that should be protected by the Constitution.

“Okay. What are we looking at?”

Raquelle opened to the first page. “High-net-worth divorce. The assets are pretty complex. There are several international properties, stock holdings, and possibly a prenuptial agreement.”

“Prenup?”

“Looks like there is one, but we haven’t received a copy yet.”

I nodded again. “Children?”

“No information about any children in the initial intake.”

“Okay.”

“The client also requested that all initial communication be handled very discreetly. She doesn’t want her husband finding out she’s contacted the firm before her first consultation.”

“Normal.” I opened my laptop.

Raquelle turned the page. “And this is a pretty big one, Maya. The client’s part of New York’s elite. Her husband’s a billionaire who owns a Colombian oil company.”

My hand stopped over the trackpad.

Oil company.

Colombia.

Manhattan was full of billionaires. Most of them had so many companies they probably forgot where their money came from.

I moved my fingers again. “Okay.”

“His family’s pretty well-known. They have international businesses, energy assets, and connections to several major investment groups.”

“Mm-hm.”

“Our client herself comes from an old New York family.”

I started opening my calendar. “Name?”

Raquelle looked down at the folder. “Samantha Whitmore.”

My index finger froze right above the trackpad.

The faint sound of Manhattan traffic filtered through the glass, and Raquelle was still flipping through pages, completely unaware that she’d just dropped something enormous into the middle of my office.

I slowly raised my head. “Sorry?”

“Samantha Whitmore.”

I stared at her.

Raquelle gave me a smile. “You know her?”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it again.

Samantha Whitmore.

Blond hair.

Champagne-colored dress.

A perfect smile onstage.

Her hand clasped in that of a man in a black tuxedo while three hundred people applauded.

I remembered that woman’s face with an extremely unpleasant degree of clarity.

Shit.

I even remembered the color of her dress.

“Maya?”

I blinked. “Yeah?”

Raquelle studied me for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“Perfect.” I set my coffee down very carefully. “Whitmore, you said?”

“Yeah. Samantha Whitmore.”

Shit.

Because..... apparently, five years hadn’t been enough time for the universe to come up with a new joke.

Raquelle looked back at her file. “She wants to divorce her husband.”

I stared at the navy folder in her hands.

No.

Don’t.

Don’t say it.

I could handle a lot of things in life.

My son kicking me out of preschool.

A furniture company losing two dining chairs.

New York charging parking fees that should legally qualify as extortion.

But this?

“Kaelnino Nathaniel de Cruz.” Raquelle looked up and continued in a perfectly cheerful, professional tone.

My mouth fell open.

She glanced at her notes one more time. “Owner of Cruz Petroleum.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.