Lawyer Regret Short Stories & Novels

In the third year after my death, my wife, a lawyer named Serena Collier, wants me to take the blame and go to prison for her first love, Declan Merritt, once again. She arrives at my hometown carrying a confession statement she prepared, only to discover the place has long since fallen into ruin. Feeling panicked, she has no choice but to ask the neighbors where I am. My neighbor says, "You're asking about Fletcher Whitmore? He's been dead for a long time! I hear that a victim's family hunted him down for revenge and beat him to death after he got out of prison." Serena refuses to believe it. She thinks that my neighbor is in cahoots with me to deceive her. With a disgusted expression, she lets out a cold snort. She sneers, "All I did was put him behind bars for a few years. Now, he even dares to lie to me! "Tell him this for me—if he doesn't show up in court that day, he can forget about me giving another cent to his mother in the mental hospital!" After saying that, she storms off angrily. Watching her stubborn figure disappear into the distance, my neighbor sighs heavily. "But his mother already starved to death in that mental hospital a long time ago…"

Not only am I the youngest son of the Townsend family, which runs a multibillion-dollar business empire, but I'm also infamously known as the dimwit in our social circle. Since childhood, I've always been slow and unresponsive, barely able to talk. Meanwhile, every one of my siblings is a certified genius. Evelyn Townsend, my oldest sister, makes a name for herself in the financial world at just 18 years old. Julian Townsend, my older brother and the second child of the family, earns two doctorate degrees by the age of 20. My parents have had a hard time believing I'm really a Townsend. They've had me undergo 18 DNA tests, consulting every renowned doctor and specialist they could find. Nevertheless, after spending over a decade exhausting all their options, the family has finally accepted the situation. The truth is, I'm perfectly capable of talking. I just don't feel like doing it. In my previous life, I was a star lawyer who had never lost a case. I'd spoken more than my fair share of words in that lifetime. In this one, all I want is to live a quiet, peaceful life without ever having to talk. Then this happens. Someone launches a short-selling attack on Townsend Corporation, and my family's company is on the verge of bankruptcy. Our business rival shows up with an acquisition contract. Dad's face turns ashen, and Evelyn goes through every clause without finding a single loophole. Even Gina Whitman, the company's chief legal counsel who has worked with us for a decade now, has already been bought off. She stands in front of us with a look of righteous conviction and declares, "You should sign the contract, Mr. Townsend. This is the only way to save the Townsend family. I've reviewed the terms. There's nothing wrong with them." Dad sighs heavily before reaching for the pen with a trembling hand. Annoyed, I decide to drop the act. My entire family watches in shock as I step forward and flip to the third page of the contract. "Why do I see conflicting provisions between the main terms of the agreement and the supplementary clauses? If my father signs this, the Townsend family will not only walk away with nothing but will even be saddled with a ten-billion-dollar debt." I flash Gina a smile that doesn't reach my eyes. "You drive a hell of a bargain, Ms. Whitman. Should we thank you for this incredible deal you've dropped in our lap?"

My mother was beaten into the ICU, and I signed six critical-condition notices in one night. When I was at my lowest, my girlfriend disappeared without a trace. Only after my mother died did I stand in court as the plaintiff's attorney in her case. My girlfriend, gone for two months, appeared at the defense table. She was defending the man who killed my mother.

My father is seriously injured while working at a construction site, but because he never signed an employment contract, his employer refuses to compensate him. Desperate, I contact my fiancee, Sabrina Voss, a highly sought-after attorney, and beg her to take my father's case. She coldly tells me she's overwhelmed with other cases and doesn't have time, leaving me with no choice but to seek legal aid. But on the day of the hearing, I'm stunned to see Sabrina walk into the courtroom in a tailored suit, representing my father's employer. She expertly cites one law after another, mercilessly challenging every claim we make. While I spend every day worrying about my father's condition and the lawsuit, I come across a post on social media that stops me cold. Sabrina's junior associate, Rowan Mercer, is showing off a brand-new luxury watch with the caption, "Thanks to my favorite person for spending that 100-thousand-dollar legal fee on my gift. This case was definitely worth it." It turns out Sabrina took the money she earned defending my father's employer and used it to buy Rowan an expensive watch. Whatever I still feel for her dies in that moment. I take off my engagement ring, drop it into the trash, then like Rowan's post and leave a comment. "Glad you're happy."

My sister, Vivian Richmond, is celebrating her birthday with the rest of the family while I lie trapped in an abandoned factory, bleeding heavily. She's hired four thugs to torture me, and they've left me fighting for my life. I crawl toward my phone with what little strength I have left. When I finally reach it, I call my husband, Ethan Monroe. "Ethan, I'm seriously injured. Come save me now… I'm at the factory nearby. It won't take much of your time…" He scoffs at my weak, desperate voice. "Sienna, whining won't get you anywhere. Are you playing the victim now?" he says. "You'll stop at nothing to ruin Vivian's birthday party, huh? Hurry back with a gift and apologize to her, or I won't go easy on you this time." Before I can speak, I hear Vivian calling his name over the line. Ethan has no idea that the moment the call ends, I no longer need his forgiveness. He doesn't know that the foul, rotting corpse that makes even an experienced forensic pathologist like him recoil in disgust belongs to the wife he's hated for years.

My father-in-law, Luther Smith, got into a car accident and was sent to the emergency room. I called my wife, Meg Smith, who was a lawyer, more than twenty times before she picked up. “What are you doing now? Hugh ran into trouble, and I’m helping him. Please don’t be a nuisance.” I suppressed my feelings and said, "Dad got into a car accident, and he needs a hundred thousand dollars for surgery." However, she believed Hugh’s words instead. She said viciously, “It’s your father who got into the accident. What does it have to do with me? Don’t covet my money for your family. Stop harassing me. I’m busy.” She then quickly ended the call. They did not manage to save Luther, and he died. Three days later, in court, I saw Meg defending Hugh as his defense lawyer for his drunk driving case. She was extremely good at her job, so she managed to win the court case for Hugh due to insufficient evidence. Hugh was acquitted. I was extremely disappointed. After the court session, I asked for a divorce. She started to panic. “My dad is so kind to you. He’ll be very upset if you divorce me!” I sneered and threw the hospital receipt and death certificate at her face. What an idiot. She did not know that she no longer had a father.

For eight years, Damian Caruso kept me as his secret wife. I handled his family's lawsuits, protected his empire, and raised the son he refused to acknowledge in public. Ethan wasn't even allowed to call him Dad when anyone else was around. I told myself Damian had his reasons. Until our son's seventh birthday. Damian promised he would come home. Ethan waited beside an untouched birthday cake until nearly midnight. Damian never showed. Because Sofia Bellini—the childhood friend everyone already treated as Damian's real woman—had the same birthday. And Damian had chosen hers. That night, I stopped waiting. I signed the divorce papers. The next morning, Damian was in such a hurry to rescue Sofia that he signed the documents I placed in front of him without even reading them. He didn't realize he had just given me permission to take Ethan out of New York. Then he moved Sofia into our home—and asked his wife and son to leave so she wouldn't discover we existed. Ethan looked at the father he had spent seven years trying to love and called him "Mr. Caruso." Damian finally looked shaken. But it was already too late. On the day we left, he told me he had to fly abroad to handle a divorce case for a client. I said nothing. Because that divorce case was mine. He was flying across the ocean to finalize the end of our marriage—and he still thought I was just taking our son out of town for a few days.

Neville had set up a special wish jar just for me. Every month, I was allowed only three draws to claim his time and attention as my husband. If I drew Dinner, he'd grace me with his presence for a brief meal, as though he were doing me some enormous favor. If I drew a blank, I wasn't even allowed to see his face. I used to tell myself that this was simply his cold, overly analytical, STEM-brained way of expressing love. That was, until Thanksgiving night, when our three-year-old daughter suffered a sudden, severe asthma attack. It left her gasping for air, her lips turning purple. I grabbed Neville by the sleeve and begged him to let me use all my remaining draws if he'd just drive us to the ER. He frowned and violently shook off my hand. "Rules are rules. Stop using our kid to guilt-trip me." Terrified and desperate, I reached into the jar for my final slip. It read: "Don't disturb each other today." Relief washed visibly over his face. Without even glancing at our daughter, he grabbed his car keys and walked out. When our daughter's condition had stabilized, I stood alone at the hospital billing desk with her in my arms. That was when I spotted Neville in a VIP treatment suite in the ER. He was gently pressing an ice pack against his assistant's knee, which had barely a scrape on it. The girl blushed and cooed, "Mr. Murphy, I didn't even have to draw a slip. Why would you take time off work just to stay with me?" Neville's expression softened with a rare tenderness. "The wish jar is meant to keep ordinary people in line. You have unrestricted VIP access." I held our trembling daughter and struggled to keep my tears from falling. It turned out that only the unloved had to leave their happiness to chance. I turned around, tossed the wish jar straight into the trash, and called my lawyer to draw up a divorce agreement.

When I got together with the Don of the Moretti family, everyone bet we wouldn’t last a month. To outsiders, I was a lawyer who was calm, quiet, and exacting, nothing like the docile women who usually surrounded Nico. Yet he would pull me into his arms and say, “You’re the only one I want.” For five years, he spoiled me rotten. Even when he flew to Europe to negotiate multibillion-dollar deals, he would take a red-eye flight back just to place the black-diamond-encrusted fountain pen he had just won at auction into my hands himself. Then a young woman appeared at his side, an orphan who was the younger sister of one of his late brothers-in-arms. At first, he said he was only helping her out. Now, he would personally step in to deal with the mess whenever loan sharks came after her, even postponing his plans to attend the family gala for her sake. Everyone was waiting to see me make a fool of myself, eager to find out how I, the proud woman who had been regarded as the future Donna for five years, would handle the situation. But they had forgotten one thing: I had always been meticulous about everything I did, right down to calculating the exact day I would leave. Six days later, I would walk away with my suitcase, determined to leave for good. That night, Nico would tear the world apart looking for me.

The day I found out I was pregnant, my husband Dario Vitale's adopted sister Sofia pushed me down the stairs. I lost the baby. And I ended up in a coma. For five years while I slept, he punished her, tormented her, and made her pray for me every single day for five years. But the moment I woke up, everything had changed. Everything that was mine now had Sofia written all over it. My spot. My space. My place in his life. She'd taken over every last bit of it. When I confronted Dario, he didn't even realize how completely he'd already taken her side. "Camila, you're awake now. Sofia's spent five years paying for what she did—isn't that enough? Can we... let this go?" Five years. And in the end, he decided I'd forgiven her for him. The pain in my chest hurt worse than anything my body had been through. The man who used to look at me like I was his whole world—he wasn't there anymore. I called my sister Ayana. "Three days. I'm going back to the Manhattan firm. And I'm never seeing Dario again."

In the second year after I died, the psychopath who killed me was finally caught. The courtroom was packed on the day of the trial. Leo Mercer stood at the defense table in his orange jail uniform, humming to himself as if he didn't have a care in the world. The families of his seven known victims, grief-stricken and furious, demanded that prosecutors pursue an exception that would allow a death sentence. Leo's defense attorney, Nathan Reese, spoke evenly. "The purpose of the law is rehabilitation. Forgiveness is more powerful than killing. I oppose a death sentence for my client." Nathan's wife, Ada Reese, was also a prominent attorney. From the gallery, she declared, "Even criminals have human rights. How can we take someone's life just because he made a mistake? Besides, weren't the victims at least partly to blame? If they were decent women, why would he have chosen them?" Leo suddenly clapped his hands and burst out laughing. "Couldn't have said it better! To thank you, let me confess something. I didn't kill seven people. I killed eight." His eyes gleamed with excitement as he looked at the Reeses, his voice thick with amusement. "The eighth victim was your daughter. So remember what you just said, both of you. No death penalty for me."