Page 56 of Pride & Precedents

I smile to myself at her callousness. I will not miss this place. I won't miss this place or anyone in it.

"You're right, Vanessa. I am a fat paralegal, soon-to-be fatlawyer. I didn't use my uncle or my college roommate to get my spot here. I fuckin' worked for it. And Ikeptworking, going to law school while you were planning weddings and honeymoons and girls' trips to Spain. And as soon as I get my bar card, I will leave here and I willneverhave to see or even think of you again."

I leave her gaping and head to HR to fill out the necessary paperwork for my leave. There's nothing keeping me here now. Maybe there never was.

Chapter twenty-three

Henry

Since getting my bar card ten years ago, I've operated by a rigid set of rules.

Tardiness is unacceptable.

Proper titles and formal greetings are a sign of respect.

Wrinkles, stains, and messiness of any kind have no place in the office.

No personal calls at the office.

One month's notice is required for any time off from work.

No romance in the workplace, whether with clients or colleagues.

No heating seafood up in the office microwave.

Today, I've broken nearly all of them.

Yesterday, after Camila left, I met with Mr. Banks and told him about Naomi's inappropriate remarks and behavior in our last two meetings.

"I'm sorry you were put in that position, Henry,"he'd said, no hint of sympathy on his face,"but I'm also surprised you weren't able to find an alternative to stepping down. The VIP rates are supposed to buy them a bit more leeway."

To say Mr. Banks was upset when I removed myself from the Watanabe-Moore case would be a gross understatement. If he'd been a cartoon, smoke would have been coming out of his ears. I may be a partner, but as the latest addition to the firm's nameplate, I am not invincible.

"Ms. Watanabe came to us specifically for the P in BBS&P! That'syou!"Mr. Banks had fumed.

His reaction was disappointing, but not surprising. I let him know that discovery was complete, that transcripts from all mediation sessions were filed, and that our settlement proposal was already updated to include Tanner's hidden properties. Jonathan would take the case, and I'd go from being insanely busy to just unreasonably busy.

"I hope, for your sake, there are no further issues with this case, and that Ms. Watanabe accepts Jonathan as your replacement. That's the only way you'll avoid a performance improvement plan."

Mr. Bannister then gave me his back with a swivel of his chair.

So I'm on razor thin ice. On razor thin ice and running ten minutes late (Tardiness is unacceptable.)to an introductory meeting with a new client. Without Camila, I was stuck at the office until after midnight preparing for this meeting. The first of many punishments for dumping a VIP case was that the senior partners gave me less than twenty-four hours to prep. I had to sleep on the couch in my office and my rumpled suit (Wrinkles,stains, and messiness of any kind have no place at the office.)makes that painfully obvious.

I would have been on time if I hadn't been trying, again, to reach Camila (No romance in the workplace, whether with clients or colleagues.). The number of times I've called her is embarrassing; I even called her from work (No personal calls at the office.). How could she just leave? Personal issues aside, she knows I have a hard time clicking with my paralegals. I certainly don't vibe with my current temp, Rick.

Rick is Mr. Banks's nephew and another punishment for "the Watanabe incident" as people around the office have started calling it. He showed up in a polo shirt rather than a suit (!), dropped a call from a judge I'd been waiting for all week after what was obviously a three-martini lunch, and then he insisted on leaving early to meet his fraternity brothers for a game of squash. He's terrible. What am I going to do, though? Mr. Banks has already chewed me out; I can't now complain that his nephew's a moron.

Even now, passing his desk—Camila'sdesk—I can see he's got Solitaire open instead of the most recent deposition. God, I might actually beg Camila to come back. Things just don't run without her. At the office, at least.

Yourlifedoesn't run without her, an annoying voice whispers from somewhere in the back of my head.Shut up, disembodied voice! I've got a new client to woo. I take a deep breath—something I never used to need to summon Sub Zero—as I reach the conference room and push the door open.

Decked out in what I can only assume is a Diane Von Furstenburg (her latest campaign) abstract print dress, Kendra Gray is stunning. The vibrant colors of the fabric, the golden notes of her skin, and the fullness of her hips visible even in her seat remind me of Camila. That's the only explanation I have for what comes next.

"Kendra!" I call out with my hand outstretched. I paste a smile on my face, hoping to cover the faux pas of addressing her so informally (Proper titles and formal greetings are a sign of respect.). I mentally kick myself and try again.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gray. I'm a big fan of your work."

I'm not. I'd never even heard of her until yesterday afternoon, but she looked lovely in the DVF runway footage I reviewed with the rest of the documentation last night.

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