THE MORNING AFTER

Isla's phone was making a sound like a fire alarm.

She grabbed it, squinting at the screen.

Fifty-one notifications. No, fifty-eight. The number kept climbing.

"Yeah." Jordan appeared in the doorway of his guest room, holding two mugs of coffee. "You're trending. Number two in New York."

She'd made it to his apartment around two in the morning. He'd taken one look at her, smudged mascara, champagne-stained dress, shoes in her hand, and pointed wordlessly at the guest room.

No questions. That was thirteen years of friendship.

She sat up and took the coffee like a lifeline. "How bad?"

"Page Six says 'Jilted Lawyer Kisses Billionaire Enemy at Charity Gala." Jordan scrolled his phone. "Business Insider is going with 'Conflict of Interest Raises Questions About Donovan Merger Case.'" He made a face. "That one's going to sting."

"Catherine."

"Called six times. Her emails have the subject line: MY OFFICE. 8 AM. All caps."

Isla's stomach tightened. She set down her coffee before she spilled it.

"Marcus is outside," Jordan added.

"What?"

"Black Range Rover. Been parked out front since six, according to my doorman. He's called you twenty-three times."

Isla moved to the window. Sure enough. She could see him in the driver's seat, staring at the building like he could make her appear through sheer will.

She looked at her phone. Twenty-three missed calls. Eleven voicemails.

She'd listened to the first three. Apologies. Explanations. Then the fourth one shifted and after that they got mean, about her background, her ambition, her 'delusions that she was actually one of them.' Things he'd never said to her face in ten years but apparently felt comfortable leaving on voicemail at four in the morning.

"He knows exactly where to cut," she said quietly.

"That's what cowards do." Jordan's voice was gentle. "Go shower. Get dressed. You need to be armored up before Catherine."

She showered, put on her blackest, most severe suit, the one she wore for the hardest cases, and ate toast she couldn't taste while Jordan gave her a pep talk that mostly amounted to: don't let them see you sweat.

Marcus was still outside when her Uber arrived. He got out of his car the second he saw her.

"Isla. Wait. Please. Just five minutes…."

She kept walking.

He caught her arm. "Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

She turned and looked at him, this man she had planned to marry, who had kissed her goodbye every morning for three years while sleeping with someone else. She felt nothing.

"I gave you ten years, Marcus." She pulled her arm free. "That's enough."

She got into the car and didn't look back.

Sterling & Wade's lobby had never felt so hostile.

The receptionist actually gasped when Isla walked in. She heard whispers starting before the elevator doors even closed.

Catherine's office was on the forty-second floor. Corner suite. Central Park view. Isla had been called up here three times in seven years. All three times had been good news.

This was not going to be good news.

"Sit," said Catherine, without looking up.

Isla sat.

Catherine Sterling was fifty-eight and looked forty. She'd made partner at thirty-three, a record. She was the woman Isla had modeled herself after. The version of success she'd been chasing for a decade.

She looked up. Her expression was flat and cold.

"Seventeen calls from the Donovan merger team this morning. Nine emails from opposing counsel requesting your recusal. A text from our managing partner asking if I've lost control of my associates." She leaned forward. "And a photograph of my lead attorney kissing the man she's supposed to be opposing in court.

Explain."

"I called off my engagement last night. I wasn't thinking clearly."

"You weren't thinking at all." Catherine's voice could have chilled a room. "You've handed Cross Industries grounds for a mistrial motion. Every decision you've made on this case is now suspect. They can argue bias, conflict of interest…"

"I know."

"Then act like it." Catherine stood and moved to the window. "I vouched for you on this case, Isla. Told the partners you were ready. And you made us a joke."

Don't apologize. Engage the problem. "What do you want me to do?"

"The partners want you fired. The ethics committee wants an investigation. The merger team wants you gone." Catherine turned back. "What I want to know is whether that kiss meant something."

Isla blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Damien Cross. Was it a breakdown? Or is there actually something there?"

The truth was, Isla didn't know.

"I don't know," she said.

"Wrong answer." Catherine returned to her desk. "You're off the merger case as of now. Administrative leave pending an ethics review. If that review comes back clean, and that's not guaranteed, we'll discuss your future here." She paused.

"File a statement saying the kiss was an emotional reaction to personal distress. Apologize publicly. Distance yourself from Cross. And you might survive this."

It was smart advice. Exactly what Isla would have told a client.

"What if I don't apologize?"

Catherine stared at her. "Excuse me?"

"What if it wasn't a lapse in judgment?" The words were coming out on their own now, like something had been unlocked. "What if I'm just done apologizing for not being perfect?"

A long silence.

"Then you're not as smart as I thought you were," Catherine said softly.

Isla stood. "I need today to think."

"You have until end of business. After that, I decide for you."

Isla walked out.

In the elevator, she passed two junior associates who went quiet the second they saw her. She caught the words 'career suicide' before the doors closed.

Let them talk.

She was tired of performing for people who would never actually be on her side.

Her phone buzzed. Damien Cross.

Saw the news. My offer still stands. If you need an employment lawyer first, I know several. If you need bourbon first, I know better ones. My office. 6 PM, if you want. —DC

Isla read it twice.

He wasn't pressuring her. Just... offering. Like he understood she needed options, not rescue.

She typed back: I'll be there.

Then she went to her office to pack her things.

As she filled a box with seven years of her life, awards, notes, the photo of her and her mother the day she made senior associate, something rose up in her chest that wasn't grief and wasn't fear.

It felt dangerously like hope.

But two floors below, in a conference room Isla had no reason to visit, a partner she'd never met was on the phone.

"She knows about the documents," he said quietly. "She may not know what she knows yet. But she will."

A pause.

"Make sure that's not a problem.”