Chapter 5 Love Really Can Disappear
Serena Sinclair's POV:
Sarah didn't push the matter; she knew I needed time. Her gaze fell inadvertently on my hands, and her lips turned down. "Your hands used to be so beautiful."
She used to envy my hands - my fingers were slender and soft, my skin fair and delicate.
I gave a bitter smile. Because Alex was a germaphobe, I kept the house spotless, doing everything myself.
When Alex was stressed from work, I even learned massage techniques to help relieve his fatigue.
After long periods of manual labor, my hands naturally became rough, and my fingers lost their former delicacy.
"That scumbag." Sarah cursed fiercely.
I could only smile faintly.
"Well, let’s not talk about him," she continued. "Kingsley & Associates is looking for new talent. Phillip specifically. And Grandpa says he'd be happy to put in a word."
I stared at my hands, remembering Professor Steven's last lecture before his early retirement. The quiet dignity with which he'd faced Professor Anderson's triumph.
"I truly feel sorry for not living up to the effort he put into mentoring me," I said sadly.
"You were in love," Sarah said simply. "We all make choices when we're in love. The important thing is what we do after we wake up."
She pulled out her phone at a red light, fingers moving quickly over the screen. "I'm sending you Phillip's contact info. Grandpa says he's already mentioned you, and Phillip's interested. Especially after your performance in court yesterday."
Back in my Plaza suite that evening, I sat at the elegant writing desk, staring at Phillip's contact information on my phone. Sarah's words from earlier echoed in my mind: "Kingsley is exactly the kind of place where you could thrive."
The city lights twinkled beyond the windows as I considered my next move. Phillip wasn't just any potential employer - he was a legend in legal circles, known as much for his integrity as his success. I remembered his guest lectures at Yale, how he'd commanded the room with quiet authority, how his principles had never wavered even in the face of political pressure.
"Come on, Serena, just one call," I muttered to myself, pacing the plush carpet.
But this wasn't just about a job. This was about reclaiming the dream I had always had of becoming a lawyer.
My finger hovered over Phillip's number. It was evening - probably too late for a professional call. But then again, Phillip was known for keeping unconventional hours, dedicated to his cases rather than the typical corporate schedule.
Before I could talk myself out of it again, I pressed the call button. The ringing seemed to echo in the quiet room.
"Hello, Phillip Kingston speaking." His voice came through clear and warm, exactly as I remembered from his lectures.
"Hello, this is Serena Sinclair. I'm Profession Steve's student," I said, gripping the phone tighter.
A weighted silence filled the line. I could almost picture Phillip's expression – that careful neutrality he'd perfected even back in our Yale days.
"I see. Briefly introduce yourself." His voice remained measured, professional.
"I... I graduated from Yale Law but haven't practiced yet." My voice wavered slightly, but I forced myself to continue. "I got married right after graduation."
He asked, "So you're looking to start your career now?"
"Yes." I straightened in my chair, though he couldn't see me. "I know I'm essentially a fresh graduate in terms of experience, but I was top of our class at Yale. I'm willing to start from the bottom."
Another pause. "Come by the office today. Six o'clock. Kingsley & Associates."
"Thank you, Mr. Kingston. I really appreciate—"
"This is a courtesy interview, Ms. Sinclair. Nothing more." The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, my reflection in its dark surface looking uncertain. Seven years ago, Phillip had been a legend at Yale Law – the golden boy who'd built an empire before thirty. Now he was offering me a chance, however slim, despite my complete lack of practical experience.
The morning passed in a blur of apartment viewings across the Upper East Side. There were still three months until the renovation of the Metropolitan was complete, three months of temporary living. Every place I saw felt wrong—it reminded me too much of the days living with Alex.
At 5:30, I stood before Kingsley & Associates' imposing headquarters. The building rose like a gleaming spear into the skyline, its glass façade reflecting the golden hour sun. Inside, the marble lobby whispered of billion-dollar deals and legal precedents that shaped the nation.
The elevator carried me to the top floor. Each floor indicator's soft chime matched my heartbeat.
When the elevator doors opened to Phillip's office, I nearly gasped. The space was bathed in the warm glow of sunset, and there he stood – a sight that made my breath catch. Time had been kind to Phillip. If anything, the years had only enhanced his presence. His tall frame was impeccably dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that emphasized his athletic build. Golden hair, slightly darker than I remembered from Yale, was perfectly styled. But it was his eyes that captured me – crystal blue and intensely focused, carrying that same quiet intelligence I remembered from his guest lectures.
He turned from the floor-to-ceiling windows as I entered, and for a moment, something flickered across his aristocratic features – surprise, perhaps, or recognition. The setting sun cast a golden halo around him, and I was struck by how he seemed to belong here, among the clouds and sky.
"Ms. Sinclair." He gestured to a chair, his movements graceful and controlled. "Your resume?"
I handed over the carefully prepared document, watching as he scanned it. His expression revealed nothing, but I noticed his fingers lingering slightly over certain lines, as if remembering something.
"Yale Law, top of your class." He looked up, those piercing blue eyes meeting mine. "Then nothing. No internships, no clerkships, not even pro bono work."
"Alex thought..." I paused, recalibrating. "No, I chose to focus on supporting his career instead of building my own. That was my mistake."
Something shifted in his expression – so subtle I almost missed it. Was it disappointment? Concern?
"The legal world has changed significantly in four years, Ms. Sinclair." His voice was gentle but firm. "We typically don't hire associates with no practical experience."
"I understand that." I met his gaze directly, refusing to back down. "But I also know that I can learn quickly."
He studied me for a long moment, and I felt the weight of his assessment.
"We have an opening," he finally said, his tone softer than before. "Junior associate, two-year trial period. Starting from scratch, like any fresh graduate. The pay will reflect that."
"I understand completely."
"Professor Steven spoke highly of you." His tone shifted slightly. "That's the only reason we're having this conversation."
I nodded, recognizing the dismissal. As I stood to leave, his voice stopped me. "Ms. Sinclair?"
I turned back. The sunset had deepened, painting his profile in shades of gold and amber. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if weighing his words carefully.
"The legal world doesn't care about past potential. Only current results." His eyes met mine, and there was something there – concern, perhaps, or a gentleness he seemed to be trying to hide. "Be prepared for that."
Was he warning me? Encouraging me? I couldn't quite tell.