Chapter 3: Three Days to Fight Back

Diana Wright's voice sliced through the morning air like a steel blade. "Let me be clear. Morgan & Wright can only keep one junior associate."

My pulse spiked, but I forced my face to stay blank. Next to me, Olivia Sterling lounged in her chair like she was born to sit in corner offices, her Chanel suit probably worth three months of my salary. The diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist caught the sunlight, a not-so-subtle reminder of exactly who her daddy was.

"The rules are simple." Diana's eyes swept over us like a judge sizing up defendants. "You have three days to bring in viable client portfolios. Best one gets the position. The other..." She didn't need to finish the sentence.

"Miss Wright—" I started, but she cut me off with a sharp gesture.

"This isn't up for discussion, Sage. You both have the technical skills. But being a lawyer isn't just about knowing the law." Her gaze lingered on my scuffed heels, and I resisted the urge to tuck them under my chair. "It's about connections. The right social circles. The ability to make high-net-worth clients feel... comfortable."

The unspoken message was clear: People like Olivia belonged here. People like me didn't.

"Ready to quit?" Olivia's voice dripped acid as we left Diana's office. Her Louboutins clicked against the marble floor like ammunition.

"In your dreams." I kept walking, spine straight, chin up. Six years of dealing with Robert had taught me never to show weakness.

She grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging in. "Face reality, Winters. My father's investment firm handles more money than you'll see in ten lifetimes. Who are you going to bring in? The drunks from that pathetic restaurant where you moonlight?"

I yanked away from her grip, rage burning in my throat. "At least I earned my place here. How many strings did daddy have to pull to get you through Yale?"

"Getting ahead is about being smart, not noble." Her smile was all teeth, no warmth. "This isn't some fairytale where hard work beats privilege. Look at yourself." Her eyes raked over my Target blazer and superglued heels. "You can barely afford to dress the part. How do you expect clients to trust you with million-dollar contracts?"

"Are you done?" I kept my voice flat, emotionless, the way I'd learned to speak to Robert when he got mean. "Because unlike some people, I actually have work to do."

"Just trying to help." She adjusted her Cartier bracelet with practiced casualness. "You don't belong here, Winters. The sooner you accept that, the less it'll hurt."

I watched her strut away, my nails carving half-moons into my palms. Her words stung because they echoed my own late-night fears. But I'd survived a predator under my own roof. I could handle a spoiled princess playing lawyer.

By four PM, reality was crushing my determination like a lead weight. Forty-seven cold calls. Twenty-three emails. Not a single positive response. My "potential client list" looked more like a record of rejection.

I stared at my reflection in the dark computer screen. The concealer under my eyes was starting to crack, revealing the shadows beneath. My anxiety meds sat in my desk drawer, but I couldn't risk the fuzzy head they gave me. Not now.

My phone buzzed. For a desperate second, I hoped it was a client. Instead, Isolde's voice cracked through the speaker, thick with tears. "Blake just dumped me."

I closed my eyes. Of fucking course. "What happened?"

"He said—" She choked back a sob. "He said he needs to 'focus on American football' right now. That he can't have 'distractions' during the season."

"What an asshole." I glanced at my depressing client list. One more night of networking wouldn't change anything. "Want company?"

"Could I... maybe come over?"

"Already ordering pizza." I started gathering my things. "And wine. Lots of wine."

Two hours later, we were sprawled on my secondhand couch, surrounded by empty pizza boxes and wine bottles. The tequila burned going down, but it was nothing compared to the acid eating at my stomach since Diana's ultimatum.

"He actually said I was a 'distraction.'" Isolde stabbed her pizza with vicious force. "Like I'm some fucking cheerleader he picked up at a game. I'm a sports reporter, for God's sake! I get the pressure he's under!"

"Men are trash." I poured us both another shot. The room was starting to spin pleasantly, dulling the edges of my anxiety. "At least yours didn't fake a whole relationship for a bet."

Her head snapped up. "What?"

Shit. I hadn't meant to say that.

"Sage." She sat up straighter, reporter instincts kicking in despite her drunken state. "What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Ancient history." I reached for the pizza, but she grabbed my wrist.

"This is about Caspian Drake, isn't it?" Her eyes widened. "That's why you get weird whenever he's mentioned. What did he do?"

"Drop it, Izzy."

"But he seems so... genuine." She frowned. "Not like these other assholes."

I laughed, the sound bitter as the tequila. "Yeah, that's what I thought too."

"Tell me."

"It doesn't matter anymore." But the alcohol had loosened my tongue, and the words spilled out anyway. "It was high school. Before he was famous. And I was stupid enough to think..." I took another shot, letting the burn chase away the memory of his hands, his lips, the way he'd made me feel special right up until I heard him laughing about it with his friends.

"Oh my God." Isolde looked horrified. "That's why he's number one on your hate list."

"Can we talk about something else?" I didn't want to think about Caspian. About how seeing him at the restaurant had ripped open wounds I thought had scarred over. "Like how we're going to get you over Blake Mitchell's sorry ass."

"Actually..." A gleam entered her eyes that made me nervous. "I have the perfect distraction. My company has a luxury box at the stadium for home games."

My blood turned to ice. "No."

"Yes!" She grabbed my hands, suddenly animated. "Come on, it'll be perfect! We'll get dressed up, drink expensive champagne—"

"I can't. I have this client thing—"

"The game's on Sunday. Your deadline is Friday." Her eyes narrowed. "Unless... there's another reason you don't want to go?"

I could feel my resolve crumbling. The tequila had softened my defenses, and Isolde's puppy-dog eyes were hard to resist even sober.

My phone rang with a news alert: "This comes on the heels of claims that Warriors star quarterback Caspian Drake is seeking new legal representation in a contract dispute with management, which is now confirmed and will be followed up on......"

I stared at the screen, that dangerous thought resurfacing in my mind in a tequila haze. A high-profile contract dispute. The star quarterback doesn't have the right representation, and it's the kind of case that could save my career.

Maybe meeting him in his natural habitat - Vanity Fair - was just what I needed. Not to torture myself, but to evaluate a potential client. After all, what better revenge than to be the one person he can't live without?

"Fine," I heard myself say when I met Isolde's surprised gaze. "But I'm not wearing a team uniform."

Her squeal of delight almost drowned out the warning voice in my head: this was playing with fire. Almost.