Page 64 of Worth the Wait

"That's how it works," Christine says, her tone hardening. "Men bounce back from these scandals. Women become defined by them. The partners claim they're progressive, but when personal matters affect professional spaces, women always pay the higher price."

My stomach twists. There's no doubt this performance is for my benefit; her office is on the opposite side of the floor. She has no reason to be walking past this conference room with Sarah at this hour.

"The worst part," Christine continues, her voice now directly outside my door, "is watching promising female attorneys throw away everything they've worked for because they can't separate their personal desires from professional judgment."

My cheeks burn at the targeted warning. Christine knows exactly what she's doing, crafting her message to needle my deepest insecurities. I force myself to stare at my computer screen, pretending I haven't heard every calculated word.

I'm still mullingover Christine’s little performance the next morning when she appears at my office door, two coffee cups in hand and a smile that looks as fake as her nails.

"I thought you could use this," she says, setting one cup on my desk. "You've been working late hours on the Westfield contract."

The gesture is so unexpectedly friendly that I'm momentarily disarmed. "Thank you," I say, caution threading through my voice. "That's… thoughtful."

"May I?" She gestures to the chair across from my desk, not waiting for an answer before settling into it, crossing her legs with elegant precision. "I feel we got off on the wrong foot, Tarryn."

I take a careful sip of the coffee. "Is that so?"

She leans forward, her expression modulating into something that would appear genuinely concerned to anyone who didn't know better. “I know I probably came across a little strong with my warnings but I'm just looking out for promising female attorneys. We need to protect each other in this environment."

The calculated sincerity in her voice makes my skin crawl. I set down the coffee cup, keeping my expression neutral. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I'm not sure what you mean.”

She narrows her gaze. “Are you sure you really understand?”

I take a small sip of coffee, masking my suspicion. “About?”

She offers a polished smile. “About what it means to be a woman in a place like this.”

I tilt my head slightly. “Meaning?”

Christine leans forward, voice dipped in sincerity. “I know how easy it is to get comfortable when things are going well. Recognition, important cases, maybe even a little attention from people who suddenly see your value.” Her eyes never leave mine. “But just remember, comfort is a luxury we can’t afford.”

I set the cup down, spine straightening. “If this is about performance, I’ve exceeded every metric since I started.”

“Oh, I’m not questioning your abilities,” she says smoothly. “You’re smart. Methodical. Respected.” A pause. “It’s precisely why I wanted to remind you how quickly those things can disappear the moment someone decides you’ve stepped out of line.”

Something in my chest tightens. "I wasn't aware I had.”

Christine offers a half shrug. “Neither was Amanda Chen, until she did.”

I stiffen. There it is again. Not a full threat, but just enough of one to tighten the noose.

A smile suddenly breaks across her lips. “You don’t need to explain anything to me. God knows I’ve navigated my fair share of glass floors in heels. Just…” She smooths her skirt as she stands. “Be smart. Be a little more invisible. Especially now. Anyway, I need to get back to work.” She walks toward the door. “I know you think you're careful, Tarryn. But trust me—someone is always watching.”

The warning hangs in the air between us as she turns to leave. At the doorway, she pauses, glancing back with what appears to be genuine regret. "Trust me when I say again that the firm will always protect men like Hayes. Women like us? We're replaceable.”

I sit in the silence that follows, the coffee still warm beside me, untouched now. She never mentioned Jackson by name. She didn’t have to. The message was clear: if things go sideways, noone will be there to catch me. Not Miguel. Not the firm. Certainly not Jackson.

And the worst part is, she might be right.

But as I stare at the coffee Christine brought, a gesture of female solidarity wrapped around a venomous warning, I wonder if I've already crossed a line that can't be uncrossed.

The copy roomhums with the steady rhythm of the machine as I collate presentations for tomorrow's client meeting. The mindless task allows my thoughts to drift, circling back to Christine's warnings and the growing complication of my feelings for Jackson.

The door opens behind me, and I know it's him before I turn, the subtle scent of his cologne, the particular cadence of his footsteps, the way the air seems to charge with electricity when we're in the same space.

"Thought I'd find you here," Jackson says, his voice low and intimate in the small room. "You disappeared after the strategy meeting."

I keep my back to him, focusing on collating the papers with methodical precision. "I needed to prepare these for tomorrow's presentation."

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