The Law Offices of Julia Beaumont was practically hidden between identical storefronts in a strip mall on the southwest edge of town. The reception area consisted of a pair of cheap chairs and a scarred wooden desk. A sign was propped beside a dated call button that instructed Rachel to ring for service. She knew that ringing for service wasn’t how most reputable lawyers greeted new clients. But Ben Abbott had been adamant about his referral.
Rachel rang the bell and waited. A door opened behind the reception desk, and a stunning Black woman with huge dark eyes appeared in the doorway. Her natural curls were cut into an angled bob that framed razor-sharp cheekbones and a 1950s pinup mouth. She wore a suit with dark suspenders, tailored so perfectly to her body, it could have been a sexy-lawyer Halloween costume.
“Rachel Abbott.” The way she said it made Rachel sound infamous and inevitable, as though Julia Beaumont had always known she would show up at her door eventually. “You’re a long way from home.”
“Ms. Beaumont? A friend of mine referred me here. He said you were one of the best attorneys in town.”
“It’s Julia. And your friend is wrong.” Julia nodded toward her office. “I’m the best lawyer in town. Come on in.”
A few minutes later, Rachel sat on the opposite side of an L-shaped desk, while Julia drummed her fingers. Rachel spotted a framed photo of Julia smiling at the camera, standing next to another woman. It took her a moment to recognize Mia, with loose hair and Mardi Gras beads draped around her neck. “You know my cousin?”
Julia didn’t look at the picture. “We’ve been best friends since high school.”
There really was nowhere to escape in this town. “Oh. Well, maybe this isn’t a good idea.”
Julia’s fingers stilled. “I’m a professional, Rachel. Whatever you tell me won’t go beyond this office. Not unless you want it to.”
Maybe it was Julia’s bullish tone that made Rachel believe her. Or maybe she needed to confide in someone whose only vested interest in her life was a contingency fee. Rachel told her everything. From dick pic to rosebushes to the million-dollar hush money. Julia’s expression didn’t change, except for a slight nostril flare when Rachel mentioned Matt’s election.
Julia wrote something on her legal pad. “Why one million? Why not two. Or ten?”
“Because I was drunk, and math isn’t my strong suit.”
Julia had no reaction. Just more notes. “What’s your current net worth?”
“I have less than a thousand in a joint account.”
“Have you started looking for work?”
The line of questioning was starting to make sense. Julia thought she was spoiled. A woman with a law degree, working long hours in a modest office, would probably consider her situation a joke.
“I haven’t worked in over a decade,” Rachel said. She listed her résumé—unpaid internships, a few cashier positions, and waiting tables. “The utilities for the house are more than three grand a month. I can’t pay for that on tips. I need to keep the lights on while I figure out what to do with my life.”
Julia slipped off her glasses and placed her pen on her notepad. “Okay,” she said. “You made this deal because you need money. I get that. You’ve been married awhile and it’s more than fair.” She folded her arms. “But I don’t really do fair. Or nice. Or neat. Whoever referred you to me is aware of that. So why don’t you tell me what you really want, Rachel. Deep down. With attorney-client privilege attached.”
That word: want. Rachel had initially brushed off her lack of “wants” as a side effect of domestic life. Her wants, her needs, even her name had been overtaken by her personae of “Faith’s mom” and “Matt’s wife.” But abandoning her own wants had started well before her marriage. A few days after Matt had proposed, Herman Abbott had pulled her aside, handed her a glass of wine, and calmly explained that while he understood that she loved his son, people don’t get things simply because they want them. “Relationships like yours only work in the movies,” he’d said. “I’m not talking about race. This is about pedigree. My son could end up in the White House and you’re a scandal waiting to happen.”
When she’d told Matt about Herman’s warning, he assured her they’d be fine. “Dad has a messed-up way of saying ‘grow up and be responsible.’ We’ll figure this marriage thing out together, Rache. As a team.” And that’s what they’d become. A unit. Strategic partners, instead of the naive fools who fell in love. Rachel had remade herself into the wife Matt needed instead of paying closer attention to everything he didn’t say. He’d never told her that she was already enough.
Now, she looked at Julia, with the memory of that day still raw and burning. “I want thirteen years of my life back,” she said. “I want the long nights working on his campaign, the boring vacations with his toxic family. I want to get back every time he told me to wait. To just wait, for a better time to go back to school. Or to open a business. Or do anything that was for me. I want every second of every day that I trusted that man refunded. And I want it with fucking interest.”
Julia opened a drawer and pulled out a client agreement form. She slid it over to Rachel. “I can work with that.”
Nathan was nervous about seeing Rachel again, so he picked a casual but suitably public setting for their first meeting. Sunlight streamed through the windows of his favorite coffee shop. The long tables at Press were filled with people studying, reading, or scrolling through their phones. He’d usually take a seat at the bar so he could people watch while he drank his coffee. Today, he stopped a few feet inside and looked around until he spotted Rachel.
Unlike the rest of the Saturday crowd, she was dressed for business—high-heeled pumps, navy dress, a strand of rich-lady pearls around her neck. Her hair was long and straight, and she held a dainty teacup with a death grip. The whole look had a definite don’t fuck with me vibe.
Rachel didn’t see him until he was almost to her table. She didn’t smile or speak, so he took a cue from her and sat without a greeting. “How long have you been waiting?”
“I don’t know. I had two espressos already, so I switched to tea.” She tapped the cup again. “I’ve never been here. It’s busier than I expected.”
No one was looking their way, but Rachel’s posture was beauty queen proper and her face was deliberately flat, like she was about to take a polygraph.
“Are you afraid someone will think we’re on a date?” he asked.
Her fingers clawed against the teacup, which wobbled and threatened to spill its contents. “Could you keep your voice down?”
“No one’s listening to us.”
“Everyone’s listening. Don’t be naive.”