Sleeping with Exhibit A

This afternoon, my apartment already smelled like rosemary and olive oil. Not because I was trying to live a healthy life. Cooking was just the only form of therapy that didn’t max out my credit card or involve handsome ghosts from my past.

I sat at the tiny dining table in the kitchen, spoon in hand, a plate full of improvised aglio e olio in front of me, across from Winona, who looked, as usual, like someone who would laugh at a funeral if given the chance.

“So,” she said, taking a dramatic bite of her salad, “how does it feel to sleep with your old sin?”

I glanced at her over my plate. “I could stab this fork into your throat without smudging my makeup. Want me to try?”

She laughed. Laughed. As if my life wasn’t currently a pile of wreckage I’d just walked out of a few hours ago.

“Dianna Rosa,” she said, leaning back in her chair, “you might be the most ruthless lawyer in your building, but as a human being? You’re so weak when it comes to that dangerous ex of yours.”

“I didn’t sleep with him.”

“Right. And I’m Miss Universe if that wasn’t his shirt you were wearing when you answered the door this morning.”

I pushed my plate away. My appetite vanished, just like my integrity did last night. “You know what,” I said, staring at her with dead eyes, “I honestly wish I had blacked out. At least then I could blame the alcohol, not my damn feelings.”

“Too bad. You were fully conscious when he helped you into the elevator. It was like watching a noir movie. Expensive and sinful.”

I dropped my face into my hands. “God, take me now. Or at least cut the Wi-Fi so I stop getting texts from him.”

My phone buzzed on the table.

Winona raised an eyebrow. “And that, my dear, is what we call: demonic manifestation.”

I checked the screen. Not Zane.

Worse.

Amelia Mercier Romano.

‘I hope you’ve started the preliminary draft. I want to review the divorce filing by this week. The sooner, the better. And remember...this is sensitive. I want this divorce finalized before end of quarter.’

I stared at the message for five full seconds. Then I swore. Loudly. Using every curse word I learned from Miami construction workers.

“She acts like this is dry cleaning or picking out a new lip balm. I haven’t even gotten a full night’s sleep, and she wants me to write a divorce filing for Zane Romano like it’s a quarterly earnings report?”

Winona sipped her lemon water and looked at me like a scientist studying a confused lab rabbit.

“If I were you,” she said, “I’d send her a voice note: ‘Sorry, I just slept with your husband. Can we circle back later?’”

I shot her a glare. “One more word, and your watch goes in the oven.”

She held up her hands. “Okay, okay. I’m done. But… can I be honest?”

“No.”

“Great. Because I’m going to say it anyway, you look more alive today. Your eyes are brighter. Or maybe it’s just the residual sin giving your face that femme fatale glow.”

I stood up, grabbed my plate, and walked it to the sink. “It’s not a glow. It’s three cups of coffee and one very stupid decision.”

Winona followed, wrapping her arms around my shoulders from behind. “You’re strong. You’re sane. But even the sanest woman has one man who turns her into a lunatic.”

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against her arm. “Yeah,” I whispered. “And mine just became my legal case.”

+++++++++

The Next Morning

I got to the office at 7:20 a.m. Fifteen minutes earlier than usual—and about fifteen years older than my emotional age from the night before.

Coffee in hand, blazer smooth, and my face... carefully arranged into something that did not scream I just ran out of bed after sleeping with the man I’m now helping divorce his wife.

Professionalism in its saddest form.

I walked into my office. The motion sensor lights clicked on. The desk was still tidy, my ergonomic chair still held the faint imprint of yesterday’s ass. Everything looked the same.

Except me.

I opened my laptop. Plugged in my phone. And within seconds, email notifications exploded like a celebrity divorce scandal.

Forty-two unread emails. Seventeen invoices. Three meeting invites. And one calendar reminder that glared at me like a digital execution notice:

“Internal Meeting – Client: Amelia Romano”

Tomorrow morning. Conference Room, 24th Floor.

I sighed. Loudly. Like someone who just realized they’d climbed up a tree, only to find a lion waiting below and an ex waiting above.

At 7:35, Sofia walked in, my assistant who was far too elegant and far too diligent for a law firm this chaotic.

“Good morning, Miss Rosa,” she said, setting a thick brown folder on my desk.

“If that’s not a merger contract or a criminal lawsuit, toss it in the shredder and tell me it was a nightmare.”

She offered a polite smile. “It’s the list of documents Amelia requested for her case. Shared assets, prenup files, and the draft clause on voting shares.”

I stared at the folder like it was a grenade with the pin halfway out.

“What time does she wake up?” I muttered. “Her ex’s breathing hasn’t even stabilized and she’s already working like a Forbes 30 Under 30 finalist.”

Sofia suppressed a smile. “And at nine, you have a meeting with Mr. Hawthorne about the contract lawsuit from the Singapore Group. He’d like you to review the exclusivity clauses.”

Of course. Because last night I slept with the enemy, and this morning I’m expected to save Southeast Asia’s trade agreements. Multitasking.

“Great. If I die this morning, pick a photo for the obituary that makes my jawline look sharp.”

She let out a tiny laugh and stepped out, while I opened my laptop and began assaulting my eyes with legal jargon that read like it was written by an alien with malicious intent.

At 8:10 a.m., my first client came in. A property inheritance dispute.

A woman in her fifties who wanted to take a villa from her sister-in-law because, and I quote, “my husband’s spirit came to me in a dream and said the house is mine.”

I nodded. Took notes. Pretended not to judge. Though in my mind, I was already drafting a memo: Client needs more priests than lawyers.

What followed were three conference calls, two contract revisions, and one intern who spilled coffee on a financial report.

A typical day. Except not.

My hands were busy. My calendar packed.

But my mind... kept drifting back to one place. That room. That bed. That look in his eyes.

And the fact that I left without a single word.

By lunch, I was staring at my grilled chicken salad like it symbolized every poor life decision I’d ever made. It tasted bland. Like a long-term relationship built without love.

I checked my inbox again. Still five emails from Amelia. One marked urgent. And one from Hawthorne Legal Admin. Subject line:

‘Internal Meeting Attendance – Mr. Romano Confirmed.’

I stared at the screen. Leaned back in my chair. And laughed.

Not the funny kind of laugh.

More like the mild psychological break kind.

Tomorrow morning. He’ll be sitting across from me. Discussing his divorce.

With the woman who once slept with him. Twice. In two different decades.

And he has no idea…that the child from that one night is currently flying kites in Colombia with his stepfather.

My life? Like a special episode of The Bold and The Beautiful...if it were written by a tipsy mess with daddy issues.

And I? The leading lady. With expensive heels… and old wounds that still haven’t healed.