The Partner Track

### Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Disclaimer: This contains sex scenes and cursing language. Please be kind, I’m not a professional writer, this is a hobby to share and have fun.

Another new one. Trying to find my footing on some styles. love this one, though. Thank you all for those following along in this journey with me!

They say don’t screw your boss. Mila Watts already did. It was supposed to be one night. One reckless, rule-breaking, intense mistake with Oliver Armstrong — her annoyingly brilliant, infuriatingly hot senior attorney. Now he’s gunning for partner, she’s trying to keep her job, and the only thing more complicated than their office dynamic is the sexual tension that refuses to die quietly. Enter: jealous lawyers, suspicious HR, new paralegals, and a very poorly timed elevator incident. Love wasn’t on the docket. But feelings have a way of crashing the case.

Complete Chapters 25 Rating 4.9 ( 36 reviews ) Age Rating mature {"language":"en","storyId":1545368,"genres":[{"name":"Romance","path":"/genres/romance"}],"authorName":"Vero Cavendish","authorPath":"/verocavendishwriter","status":"complete","lastUpdatedAt":1759706082,"chaptersCount":25,"rating":4.944444444444445,"reviewsCount":36,"ageRating":"mature"} Chapter 1 Mila Watts 

I spin around like I’m in a crime scene reenactment. Fridge? Nothing. Booze cabinet? Just a sad little bottle of peach schnapps no one asked for. That random shelf above the microwave I’ve never cleaned? Dust bunnies and a lighter, but no wine.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” I mutter, staring down the empty countertop like it owes me money. I swear I bought that damn bottle. Like, recently. I have a memory of holding it. Cradling it like a newborn. Did I dream that?

I can’t roll up to a BYOB with N-O-B. That’s social suicide. That’s how you get marked forever in the cubicle jungle — “Oh, Mila? Yeah, she’s the one who shows up empty-handed and eats all the good cheese.”

“Ally?” I yell toward the living room, because at this point, there’s only one logical explanation.

“Yeah?” she calls from her fortress of throw pillows, where she’s been nesting like some kind of Netflix-watching woodland creature.

“Did you open a Merlot?” I’m fastening earrings, trying to maintain some illusion of control.

“Uh… no?” she says, with all the conviction of someone absolutely lying.

I march over and peer into her pillow pile like a mom looking for contraband. No bottle in sight, but I spot a glass with suspicious purple evidence on the rim.

“I told you that was for the party,” I snap.

She shrugs, completely unbothered. “You didn’t say which party.”

“I didn’t think I had to specify that the only unopened bottle of wine in the apartment was not for your Real Housewives rewatch marathon.”

“I mean, technically you didn’t label it—”

She makes a sad face and offers the half-full glass like that somehow makes up for it. It doesn’t. It makes it worse. Who brings half a glass of Merlot to a party? What is this, a tasting?

I grab my purse, contemplating the logistics of a 7-Eleven wine run. God help me, I might have to bring rosé.

And if Karen from accounting makes a snarky comment, I swear I’m throwing a Babybel at her forehead.

I slam the door behind me and march down the stairs like I’m on a mission from God — or at least Dionysus. I’m mentally running through every half-decent place still open at this hour, weighing how desperate I’m willing to look. Bodega wine? No. That’s how you end up with a $4 hangover and a bottle that tastes like regret and raisins. CVS? Might as well bring rubbing alcohol and a prayer.

I end up hustling my ass toward Harlem, dodging a dude trying to sell me incense and a lady screaming into a headset like she’s directing traffic in her own personal opera. Classic New York: chaos, noise, and three rats who clearly pay no rent but run the block like they own it.

Finally — finally — I spot the Aldi like it’s a damn oasis. No angels singing, just the wheezy slide of automatic doors and that familiar whiff of budget groceries and broken dreams.

I power-walk inside like I’m training for the Olympics: Wine Sprint Edition. I dodge a cart with one janky wheel and make a beeline to the liquor section. Past the chips, past the sad produce, past a guy having a very emotional moment with a rotisserie chicken.

There it is. The promised land. The wine shelf.

Except — and of course, because my life is a sitcom written by spiteful gremlins — it’s slim pickings. A lone bottle of Chardonnay that’s been there so long it’s developed abandonment issues. A Pinot Grigio that looks like it came with a side of regret. And then, finally, blessedly , one bottle of Merlot tucked behind some random Riesling like it’s hiding from me.

I snatch it like it’s the last life vest on the Titanic.

“Don’t fuck with me,” I whisper to the label, checking the year. Not great, not terrible. Definitely drinkable. Probably won’t blind anyone. Perfect.

“I wouldn’t bring that,” a voice cuts in behind me, smooth and smug like a latte with too much foam.

I whip around on instinct, ready to fight. It’s a man — of course it is — dressed in that curated casual look: blazer like he’s not trying too hard, nice jeans that definitely cost more than my internet bill, a grey button-down probably steamed just for this errand. His hair’s doing that architectural swoop thing that screams I spend more time on this than you spend on your taxes . Tortoiseshell glasses perched on his nose like he just stepped out of an indie bookstore with a tote bag full of opinions. And those brown eyes? Locked on the bottle in my hand with all the judgment of a Master Sommelier and the actual experience of a guy who once got tipsy off sangria at a cousin’s wedding.

“It’s Merlot,” I say, eyebrows raised. “Good year too.”

He actually snorts. Snorts . Like I just told him I was pairing it with SpaghettiOs.

“It’s lazy,” he says, folding his arms like he’s delivering a TED Talk on how not to embarrass yourself in the beverage aisle.

I blink. “I’m sorry, are you the wine police?”

“No,” he says, smiling like he thinks that’s charming. “Just saying. Merlot’s what people grab when they don’t know what they’re doing.”

“And unsolicited opinions are what people give when they have nothing else to offer,” I fire back, still holding the bottle, now more determined than ever to show up with it and pour it with theatrical flair.

He chuckles, like I’m some amusing little disaster with no taste buds.

“I mean, there’s a Bordeaux on the bottom shelf that’s not bad,” he says, tilting his chin toward it, because apparently he thinks I’m the kind of girl who takes wine advice from strangers in discount grocery stores.

“Cool,” I say, “but I’m not trying to impress a bunch of assholes. I’m trying to not get roasted by Sharon from HR for showing up empty-handed.”

He shrugs, grabbing the bottle for himself. “Suit yourself.”

I strut past him to the self-checkout, bottle clutched like a middle finger. Screw him and his wine elitism. I hope his Bordeaux has a cork so dry it crumbles into the bottle like a sad metaphor.

Let him take his artisanal attitude somewhere else. I’ve got a party to crash, a reputation to salvage, and a bottle of ‘lazy’ Merlot with my name on it.

By the time I’m out of Aldi, I’m sweating like I just survived a wine-based Hunger Games. I clutch the Merlot like it’s a newborn and hustle to the nearest train, ignoring the man on the platform beatboxing into a traffic cone. God bless New York.

I make it to the party just late enough to be considered “cool” and not so late that anyone can accuse me of flaking. The apartment is nice — too nice — one of those open floor plan, Edison bulb, Scandinavian-wood-vibes kind of places. Definitely paid for by someone who uses the phrase “investment property” unironically.

I spot the booze table and practically slam the Merlot down like I’m making a statement. Because I am — I brought the bottle, it’s here, it counts, and if anyone wants to fight me about it, I’m armed with both corkscrew and rage.

The party is full of people pretending they’re not coworkers, sipping from solo cups like it’s 2006, trying to make HR-safe conversation while also getting just tipsy enough to gossip. I wade through a sea of people I sort-of-know and definitely don’t trust, heading toward the cheese plate like it owes me money.

And then, like some kind of karmic joke written by a petty god, he’s there .

Standing across the room, wine glass in hand, talking to Karen from accounting of all people, laughing like he’s auditioning for a wine commercial. And what’s in his hand?

I freeze mid-sip, watching him make some dramatic swirl-and-sniff gesture like he’s about to recite poetry. Karen is eating it up. Probably thinks he’s sophisticated. She’s always had a soft spot for pretentious men in loafers.

He sees me. I know he sees me. His eyes flick to my cup, then to the bottle on the table. My bottle.

I raise it in a little cheers motion, all sarcastic smile and no mercy.

He smirks, like this is all very cute to him, and lifts his glass back. Then — and I swear to god this man has no shame — he mouths lazy at me from across the room.

I down half my cup in one go, letting the Merlot warm my chest like armor. I don’t know who invited this man, but if I find out, they’re dead to me. That said… I might also need another cup, just in case I feel like proving a point. Or starting a petty war. Either/or.

I make the rounds, doing the classic work-party waltz: one hand on my cup, the other shaking hands with people I talk to every day but now have to pretend I enjoy seeing outside of Slack. George from IT tells me about some drama with the printers again, Jen from Compliance gives me her usual “we should totally grab lunch” lie, and I nod like I haven’t heard this exact script before. Corporate déjà vu.

Then Lucy — the other paralegal, sharp bob, sharper eyeliner — grabs my arm mid-step.

“Hey, Mila,” she says, eyes already glinting with gossip. “Have you heard the news?”

My brain immediately goes to layoffs, drama, or a surprise drug test. “What news?”

“New lawyer,” she says, tipping her chin toward the corner like she’s revealing the location of a body.

I follow her gaze — and, of course. Of course.

He’s leaned casually against the kitchen island, chatting with our senior manager like he was born inside a LinkedIn post. Same smug half-smile, same goddamn glasses, like he just walked out of a Netflix courtroom drama and into my actual workplace.

“Really?” I say, deadpan. My cup inches closer to my lips. “That guy?”

“Oh yeah,” Lucy says, nodding like she’s about to recite his résumé. “Harvard. Liberty & Partners. Supposedly Jeffrey made some moves to get him — like took him to dinner at Le Coucou, got HR involved two months in advance, the whole golden-chicken treatment.”

I blink. “Did you say chicken?”

She nods. “You know, like when they lay all the eggs and make the money and… whatever. You know what I mean.”

I do. I really do. And I hate it.

Blazer Guy — who, just hours ago, insulted my wine choice in a grocery store like we were competing on Chopped: Sommelier Edition — is now my coworker . Probably with his own office. Probably with views. Probably with a salary that starts with a number I’ll never even see on a pay stub unless I sell an organ.

“I chatted with him earlier,” Lucy adds. “He’s kind of hot, in that I-own-cryptocurrency way.”

“He told me Merlot was lazy,” I mutter into my cup.

She makes a face. “Who critiques wine in Aldi? That’s like reviewing the vibes at a gas station.”

I glance back over at him. He’s laughing at something Jeffrey said, tilting his glass just-so like he’s in an ad for moderately priced red. I hate how good he looks in that blazer. I hate that he probably says things like “synergy” unironically. I hate that now I’ll have to see him in meetings.

Oh, and I really hate that he mouthed lazy at me and now has an office across from mine.

But hey — this is war. Quiet, corporate war.

The party keeps going, music low but the chatter rising like steam off a broken radiator. I’m mid-bite, sliding a cube of provolone into my mouth like I’ve been doing all night — no grace, no shame — when I hear Jeffrey’s voice slice through the noise:

I turn around, half-chewed cheese lodged somewhere between my dignity and my molars. And there he is.

Mr. Blazer. Mr. Bordeaux. Mr. “It’s lazy” . Standing beside Jeffrey like he didn’t just insult my soul in the wine aisle less than two hours ago. He’s still got that too-nice swoop of dark hair, the tortoiseshell glasses, and the smug, polished posture of a man who probably irons his jeans and calls it “effortless.”

I swallow too fast. It burns a little.

Jeffrey beams, full on in boss-introducing-new-talent mode. “This is Oliver Armstrong — he’ll start with us on Monday!”

I extend my hand like a professional, mentally calculating how many days of my life I’ll now have to pretend this man didn’t critique my wine aura like a condescending sommelier.

“Mila Watts,” I say with my most polite murder smile.

Oliver takes my hand, all smooth grip and eye contact. “Pleasure.”

Jeffrey claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re co-captains of Team Welcome Wagon. “Mila’s one of our best — paralegal, but basically psychic. Keeps us all alive. Don’t tell Lucy I said that.”

I nod, still smiling, still very much pretending I’ve never seen this man before in my entire life.

Oliver’s smile twitches. “I’ll try not to say that to Lucy either.”

Jeffrey laughs. “Oh, you’re gonna fit right in.”

I bet he is. I bet he fits in everywhere , like one of those rich-guy pens that just slides into the inside pocket of a $900 coat and never leaks.

“Well, I’ll let you two mingle,” Jeffrey says, already turning to greet someone else like a wedding DJ on espresso. “Mila’ll show you where the good snacks are.”

And just like that, we’re standing there. Alone-ish. Plastic cups in hand. Eye contact in progress. A silent electric buzz of I-know-you humming between us.

But neither of us says a word about Aldi. Or wine. Or the insult that haunts me like a cheap vintage.

He gestures at the cheese table. “You recommend the provolone?”

“It’s dependable,” I say coolly, popping another cube into my mouth. “Uncomplicated. Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”

He nods slowly, like that’s a real answer and not an extremely petty metaphor.

“Sounds like a good choice,” he says. “I’ll have to try it.”

I raise my cup slightly. “Better hurry. The vultures descend around hour two.”

He chuckles, taking a step toward the food. “Thanks for the tip, Mila.”

I watch him walk away, blazer crisp, cup in hand. He grabs a cube of provolone, tosses it in his mouth, and — I swear — glances back at me with a ghost of a smile.

Inkitt’s mission is to discover talented writers and turn them into globally successful authors.

Authors can write and upload their manuscripts on Inkit for free and writers retain 100% of their copyrights while writing on Inkitt

Readers can read all books for free, without any ads and give the authors feedback.

Books that perform well based on their reader engagement are published on our Galatea app.

--------------------------------------------------

### Chapter 2: Chapter 2

The chick from Aldi — the one who stood there clutching a bottle of bottom-shelf Merlot like it was some sacred artifact — is not just at this party. She’s not just a guest I can casually avoid while sipping real wine and pretending to care about office culture.

She’s going to be my paralegal .

Because apparently fate has a dark sense of humor and a deep appreciation for my personal suffering.

I stare at her while Jeffrey does his whole shiny introduction thing, rattling off her name like he’s announcing the winner of some legal reality show.

Of course her name is Mila. Sharp consonants. Sounds like she files motions in her sleep and could kill a man with a stapler if provoked.

And she’s just—standing there. All composed and professional, holding a red party cup like it’s a prop in a commercial. She doesn’t even blink when she sees me. Just swallows a piece of cheese and extends her hand like we didn’t have a passive-aggressive showdown in the wine aisle two hours ago.

I shake her hand. Cool. Firm. Totally normal. Not thinking about how she looked at me when I said lazy . Not thinking about how her eyes flared like she was about to commit a misdemeanor.

Jeffrey’s still talking — something about her being the best paralegal on the team, not to tell Lucy, blah blah, whatever. I’m trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut. Not because I’m intimidated. I’m not. I’ve worked with difficult people. Brilliant ones. Eccentric ones.

She says nothing about Aldi. Doesn’t even hint at it. Which is… weird. I expected a jab. A smug little line. Something petty to match mine.

But no. She just smiles like I’m some stranger who didn’t call her wine lazy like a fucking snob.

And now I feel—what? Guilty? No. Just surprised. She’s clearly letting it go. Being professional. Which I respect. That’s good. Healthy. Mature.

I nod toward the cheese. “You recommend the provolone?”

She doesn’t even look up. “It’s dependable. Uncomplicated. Doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not.”

Right. Sure. Totally not a dig.

I pop a cube into my mouth like I don’t care. It tastes fine. Normal. Mild.

Like my chances of surviving the next three months without saying something incredibly stupid again.

She walks off a minute later, back into the crowd like she’s not haunting the inside of my skull.

So what if we traded some jabs in a grocery store aisle? People argue about wine all the time. That’s not flirting. That’s not a thing . That’s just New York — loud, opinionated, and vaguely hostile before dinner.

So what if she’s my new paralegal? It’s a big office. I’ll barely see her. Probably just in passing. A few emails. The occasional “can you pull the filing for this” or “we need the Johnson file by Thursday.” Easy. Civil. Cold, even. Like Antarctica with wi-fi.

So what if she’s cute? Whatever. Lots of people are cute. Big city, hot people, statistically inevitable. It means nothing.

So what if she has that copper hair that looks like it catches fire under Edison bulbs, or that little black dress that makes her look like she could sue you and then dance on your grave? So what if she ate provolone like she was bored of everyone in the room but not too bored to dominate the snack table with silent confidence?

I’m just reacting to the situation. That’s all. The logistics. The, uh… power dynamics. The workflow. Basic team synergy or whatever.

She’s sharp. Okay, fine. I can admit that. Her timing is fast, her tone is razorwire in velvet, and the way she didn’t even mention Aldi to Jeffrey? That’s warfare. That’s psychological combat. That’s not nothing.

It’s not about her. I’m just— aware of her. In the way you’re aware of a fire alarm or a loaded gun. A professional kind of awareness. Respect. Dignified.

A real one. Something aged in oak and priced like a mistake. Something that doesn’t taste like I’m losing control of a situation I wasn’t supposed to give a shit about in the first place.

Fresh start. Blank slate. Clean kill.

I get in early because that’s what winners do. The office is still quiet, that eerie pre-buzz calm like a courtroom before the judge enters. I’ve got an hour before anyone else shows up — just enough time to scope the place, map out the terrain, and mark my territory like the ambitious bastard I am.

I find the coffee — it’s mediocre but strong, which is basically the New York law firm standard. I find the printers. I check which ones jam and which ones don’t. I open drawers. I size up desk options. I test chairs. I mentally clock sightlines and visibility angles — the corner office is mine by Q2, and I want it with windows.

I’m professional. I’m prepared. I’m the best shot this office has.

I’ve closed deals people twice my age couldn’t touch. I’ve got a 93% win rate. I make partners nervous and GCs respectfully afraid. Bonuses, prestige, control — it’s all lined up.

Pencil skirt. Black silk blouse tucked in like she was born to intimidate someone’s soul. Heels — not tall, but sharp enough to kill a man in an alley. Her copper hair twisted up, pinned with some black sparkly clip like a goddamn comet perched at the back of her head. She’s holding a stack of files, already flipping through them like the day started an hour ago and she’s just now letting the rest of us catch up.

Cream nail polish on her fingers. Hands fast. Efficient. Dangerous.

Why do I clock the nail polish? Who the fuck knows. Who the fuck cares. My brain’s just being weird. It’s Monday. I haven’t eaten. That’s all.

She doesn’t even look at me. Just walks past like a boss-ass ghost with paperwork and purpose, heels clicking like a fucking metronome counting down to my demise.

I sip my coffee. It suddenly tastes like burnt dirt.

She’s my paralegal. That’s all. A very competent, oddly-hot-in-an-aggressive-way paralegal who works for me now.

This is totally, completely manageable.

I watch her walk into the glass office next to mine like she owns it.

But god help me, she looks like she does.

Like she owns the fucking place. Like she’s been here forever. Like I’m the one who just transferred in from some nameless office park in Jersey instead of, you know, fucking Harvard and Liberty & Partners.

I shake it off, sit at my desk, start powering up my laptop. Sip my shit-tier coffee and pretend like I’m laser-focused on syncing my inbox instead of trying not to think about the way the back of her neck looked when she walked in.

Then — a few minutes later — click, click, click .

She walks by. Not in a dramatic way, not in a “notice me” way. Just… like a woman doing her job. Efficient. Controlled. Like every movement’s been edited for speed and precision.

She doesn’t break stride. Doesn’t pause. Just drops a heavy-ass stack of manila folders right next to my keyboard with a thud that rattles my self-image.

“These are the Rembaur class action files,” she says, tone clipped, clean, professional as hell . “Jeffrey said to give them to you to work on.”

That’s it. No smile. No smirk. No ‘hey, remember when you were a dick about Merlot?’ Not even a flicker of the chaos we shared on Saturday night.

I glance at the stack. Thick. Tabbed. Color-coded. Perfectly organized like it fucking trained for this . She probably started at 6 a.m. while I was still mentally rehearsing my power walk.

I look up at her, but she’s already halfway gone. Just a trail of perfume and productivity.

“Thanks,” I say, trying to sound normal. Calm. Not like I’m still processing the way she slammed those files down like she was setting the first domino in a long, slow burn of mutual destruction.

I open the top file and try to focus, but my brain’s already working overtime. Not on Rembaur. Not on class certifications. On her . On her voice. Her hands. Her complete and total refusal to acknowledge the fact that I once very confidently told her that Merlot was lazy like a full-blown asshole.

She’s better at this game than I am.

It’s not like I’m keeping score.

(I am absolutely keeping score.)

The day moves along. The usual first-day parade: awkward introductions, office tours, five people telling me where the bathrooms are like it’s some kind of sacred knowledge. I nod, I smile, I shake hands like a politician with a law degree and a caffeine dependency.

I’ve got files to read, a thousand emails to sort through, and a calendar that’s already getting booked like I’ve lived here for six years. The whole nine fucking yards.

And throughout the day, Mila’s in and out of my office like some kind of hyper-efficient ghost.

Every time I need something — a file, a precedent, a goddamn stapler — she’s there. Not waiting, not lingering, just appearing, delivering, disappearing. No fuss. No small talk. No extra bullshit.

She’s really fucking good at her job.

She doesn’t just hand me the documents I ask for — she predicts the next thing I’ll need before I realize I need it. Like she’s already read the case notes, cross-referenced the filings, and knows I’m gonna want the deposition summaries by 3 p.m.

She doesn’t hover. She doesn’t interrupt. She just drops off what’s needed, answers in three words or less, and vanishes like a highly competent magician in heels.

And I hate how I keep noticing it.

I hate that every time I hit a wall, she’s already got a ladder.

That every time I go, “Shit, where’s—” she’s already halfway in the door with it in hand.

I hate that I’m running out of reasons to think she’s just some pretty face with cheap wine and a sharp tongue.

And I’ll choke on my tongue before I tell her she’s actually good at something.

Not because she isn’t — she is, obviously — but because that’s not how this works.

She moves like she already knows the terrain. Fast, efficient, exact. She’s in and out of my office without a ripple. Doesn’t wait for instructions. Doesn’t overexplain. Half the time I open my mouth to ask for something, and it’s already in her hand.

Not in a bad way. Just… hard to ignore.

Which is a problem. Because I’ve got shit to do — real shit. Cases, deadlines, a desk full of strategy and litigation, not whatever this is. Not the fact that I’ve started to recognize the sound of her heels coming down the hall. Not the way I can tell it’s her just by the rhythm.

I give feedback when it matters. When it’s necessary. When something’s wrong. If she’s not hearing anything from me, it means she’s doing fine. Better than fine.

She doesn’t seem to need the praise anyway. She just nods, takes the next folder, makes it disappear into order.

Still, every now and then, I catch myself watching the way her eyes scan a page. The way her hand moves when she makes notes — fast, but not careless. The way she doesn’t fill silence just to fill it.

It’s nothing. Just observation.

I take another sip of coffee. Cold. I don’t remember when I poured it.

Anyway — she’s good at what she does.

But she doesn’t need to hear that from me .

Lunch rolls around, and apparently it’s a big fucking deal.

First day, and suddenly everyone’s falling over themselves to show me “the lunch spot” like I’ve never eaten food in Midtown before. There’s a full crowd waiting by the elevator — Clark, a couple junior associates, one of the HR girls, even Jeffrey, which is mildly terrifying.

Of course she is. Back of the group, leaning against the wall like she was summoned by accident, eyes locked on her phone, face blank and unreadable like she’s just waiting for this whole charade to end.

Everyone else is talking — office banter, little jokes, trying to sell the lunch place like it’s Michelin-rated and not just the bistro across the street with overpriced salads and good lighting. And Mila?

She doesn’t even pretend to be part of the conversation. She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t try to make eye contact. Like this is a commute, not a moment.

The elevator’s crowded, and she’s on the opposite side — a safe distance, like it’s intentional. And yeah, okay, maybe I glance at her once. Maybe twice. Maybe I’m trying to figure out what she’s reading that’s got her so laser-focused.

Probably a brief. Or war crimes. She gives that vibe.

Clark, trying very hard to be The Guy Who Knows Where To Eat, leans in toward me and says, “Oh, you have to get the salmon.”

“No seriously,” he insists, like he’s letting me in on classified intel. “It’s the best. They’ve got this sauce — some kind of fruit situation? Like, citrus maybe? Whatever it is, it slaps.”

Clark beams like he’s just changed my life, like I’m going to get the salmon and ascend into some kind of citrus-laced enlightenment. Jesus.

I glance across the elevator again and — surprise — Mila’s finally looked up from her phone.

Not at me, obviously. That would require acknowledging I exist.

She’s talking to Lucy now, the other paralegal — the one Jeffrey pretended wasn’t second-best this morning. They’re side by side, heads tilted in just enough to indicate an actual conversation, but not enough to invite anyone else in.

Something about blazers. And a clearance sale. Or tailoring. I catch the word “shoulders” and “non-stretch lining” , and then Mila says, “Yeah, but if you size down, it looks sharper. Trust me.”

And it shouldn’t matter. It really shouldn’t matter.

But hearing her voice — the way it shifts out of professional mode and into this low, casual rhythm — that little glint of real-person Mila? Yeah, it fucking pings something.

I shouldn’t care that she’s talking about clothes. I shouldn’t be wondering what her voice sounds like when she’s not discussing deposition formatting or citing precedent like it’s light conversation.

But here I am, catching phrases I don’t understand and pretending I’m still interested in Clark’s damn salmon.

Mila doesn’t even glance my way.

And it’s not passive. It’s intentional.

It’s the kind of not-looking that says I know you’re there, I’m just choosing not to fucking care.

And weirdly? That gets under my skin more than if she did say something. I’d almost prefer another argument about wine in a shitty grocery store. At least that had heat. This is just… precision ice.

It’s fine. It’s her job. It’s my first day. She doesn’t have to care.

But goddamn, she’s good at not caring with style.

Inkitt’s mission is to discover talented writers and turn them into globally successful authors.

Authors can write and upload their manuscripts on Inkit for free and writers retain 100% of their copyrights while writing on Inkitt

Readers can read all books for free, without any ads and give the authors feedback.

Books that perform well based on their reader engagement are published on our Galatea app.

--------------------------------------------------