Worth the Fall: A Single Dad, Romantic Comedy (Flirting with Forever Book 2)

Monday morning starts with a disaster. I spill coffee all over my blouse just as I’m about to head to the office, muttering curses as I grab a napkin to blot the stain.

‘Perfect,’ I mutter, sighing as I dab at the fabric in a futile attempt to clean it.

Linda pokes her head into my office just as I’m dashing into the bathroom to assess the damage. ‘Rough morning?’

‘Nothing I can’t handle,’ I reply, motioning to the stain.

‘Well, I don’t mean to add fuel to the fire but,” her expression is uncharacteristically hesitant, “you’ve got a nine a.m. meeting with one of the partners. Just got added to your calendar this morning.’

I groan, checking the time. ‘Of course I do. Thanks for the heads-up.’ Something in her tone makes my smile fade. ‘Everything okay?’

‘Just… brace yourself.’

“Shit,” I mutter, “okay, I have to address this first,” I say motioning toward the brown stain on my shirt.

I scrub the material, even though it’s doing little to help as I mentally catalog any possible issues. Did I miss something in the Morrison brief? Was there a problem with the Simmons account?

“Ugh,” I groan, dabbing at the now huge wet stain with a dry paper towel. It’s no use. I toss the paper into the garbage can and try to make the best of my appearance before heading down the hall.

By the time I make it to the conference room, I’m a few minutes late. Mr. Whitman, one of the senior partners, is standing near the head of the table, chatting with a woman who looks like she belongs on the cover of Forbes.

‘Ah, Mia!’ Whitman beams as I enter. ‘Perfect timing.” He glances down at my blouse, his smile faltering briefly. “I wanted you to sit in on this new client meeting. Very exciting opportunity for the firm.’

The woman rising from the leather chair stops my heart mid-beat. Even before she turns, I know that this isn’t just any old client meeting. Something in the elegant line of her shoulders, the graceful way she moves, just like the woman I saw him speaking with after our date…

‘Sorry I’m late,’ I say, setting my things on the table. ‘Mia Mason.’

Her tailored suit is impeccable, her hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail. When she turns to me, her gaze is sharp, assessing, and vaguely familiar.

Her eyes flick to the stain on my blouse, and her lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

‘The pleasure’s mine,’ she says smoothly, her voice dripping with honey.

I grab my things and start to sit when Whitman claps his hands together. ‘Alright, let’s get started. Mia, let’s show Miss Ramirez what we can offer her at our firm.’

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat. ‘I’m sorry—what?’

The woman extends her hand across the table, her smile widening. ‘Celine Ramirez. I’m in the market for a new firm and have heard wonderful things about you.’

My stomach drops.

‘She’s considering bringing her business to us. Celine, this is Mia Mason, one of our most promising associates.’

Celine extends one perfectly manicured hand, her smile polite but her eyes sharp with assessment. ‘Miss Mason. What a pleasure to finally meet you.’ Her eyes drift down to the stain, a smirk tugging at the corner of her perfectly glossed lips.

I force my own hand not to shake as I accept hers. Her grip is perfectly calibrated – professional, confident, just this side of too firm. ‘Likewise, Mrs. Ramirez.’

‘Oh, please,’ her laugh is musical, practiced. ‘Call me Celine. After all, Felicity’s told me so much about you.’

Whitman’s head snaps up from the papers on his desk, interest piqued. ‘Oh? You two know each other?’

I choke on air, my carefully maintained composure cracking. Before I can stammer out a response, Celine smoothly interjects.

‘We’re acquainted through a mutual friend,’ she says, her tone perfectly casual. ‘Mia knows my daughter through social circles, but somehow,” she flashes me an icy glare, “we’ve never had the pleasure of meeting properly until now.’

My face burns as I try to look anywhere but at Whitman. Why is she lying? If he knew the truth, that I’m dating her ex-husband, that I’m becoming a mother figure to her daughter, he’d pull me off this case so fast my head would spin. My professional reputation would be questioned, my judgment called into doubt. Hell, my entire career could be on the line. I swallow down the grapefruit sized lump in my throat, my chest tight with panic.

Think Mia, think! You know there’s only one way this can go if you try and hide this from your boss.

‘Well, isn’t that wonderful?’ Whitman says, clearly pleased at the personal connection. ‘That should make working together even smoother.’

I manage a weak smile, my mind racing.

Is this some kind of elaborate torture? Get me assigned to her case, then watch me squirm as I try to maintain professional boundaries?

‘I’m sure it will,’ Celine agrees, her smile never wavering. ‘Felicity speaks so highly of Mia’s… organizational skills. I appreciate attention to detail in my legal affairs.’

My stomach churns at the subtle emphasis. Every word feels loaded, wrapped in layers of meaning I’m not sure I’m ready to decode.

‘Well,’ I manage, grateful for years of courtroom experience keeping my voice steady, ‘shall we head to my office? We can discuss your needs in detail.’

‘Perfect.’ Celine gathers her designer bag, every movement elegant and assured. ‘Lead the way.’

As we walk down the hallway, her heels clicking in perfect rhythm against the marble, my mind spins with possibilities.

Is she testing me? Trying to trap me in some kind of ethical violation? Or is this some elaborate way to assess the woman who’s becoming part of her daughter’s life? I can’t be mad at that can I? But going about it like this feels…like a trap.

The weight of those questions settles heavy on my shoulders as I open my office door. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’

Celine glances around my space, taking in the careful organization, the color-coded files, the single framed photo of Miguel and Felicity from our last picnic. Her eyes linger on the image just a fraction too long.

I gesture Celine to one of the chairs facing my desk, hyper-aware of how my hands are trembling. Years of courtroom experience, countless high-stakes negotiations, and yet nothing has prepared me for this moment. The best I can do, put those lessons into practice and keep my cool.

‘Lovely office,’ Celine remarks, her eyes still lingering on that damn photo of Miguel and Felicity. I resist the urge to turn it face-down. ‘Very… organized.’

‘Thank you.’ I sit behind my desk, grateful for the physical barrier between us. My laptop screen becomes suddenly fascinating as I pull up her file, pretending I don’t notice how she’s studying me.

‘So,’ she says, settling into the chair across from my desk with practiced grace, ‘shall we begin?’

The question burns in my throat, why are you really here? But I swallow it down. ‘I’ve reviewed your preliminary documents. Shall we start with your investment portfolio?’

‘Always so professional,’ Celine muses, and something in her tone makes me look up. She’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read. Amused? Calculating?

“I try to be,” I smile, not giving her the satisfaction of knowing I’m internally having a five alarm meltdown. “As I was saying⁠—”

‘Don’t you want to know why I chose Harrison & Brooks?’

The bait dangles there, tempting. My heart pounds against my ribs as I force my most practiced client smile. ‘Well, I assume it’s because we’re one of the most comprehensive and well known law firms in Chicago. Our track record speaks for itself, as I’m sure you already know with your dedicated research to finding a new firm.’

Something flickers across her face, frustration or maybe disappointment, before her perfect mask slides back into place. She clearly expected me to take the bait, to let this become personal rather than professional.

Not today, Celine.

‘Shall we continue?’ I ask, voice steady despite the anxiety churning in my stomach. I pull out the first contract, clicking my pen with perhaps more force than necessary. ‘I have some questions about your current holdings…’

For a moment, she just studies me, like she’s reassessing her strategy. Then she reaches for her designer bag, extracting her own copies of the documents with elegant efficiency. ‘Of course. By all means, let’s be thorough.’

The word thorough carries a weight I’m choosing to ignore. Instead, I launch into a detailed analysis of her portfolio, letting legal jargon become my armor. I can do this. I can be professional, be competent, be everything this firm expects of me.

Even if it kills me.

Three weeks. It’s been three weeks since Celine Ramirez walked into Harrison & Brooks and turned my carefully organized world sideways.

Three weeks of perfectly polite smiles and carefully measured words, of trying to prove myself professionally while feeling like I’m being judged on an entirely different scale.

Three weeks of not only hiding that fact from Miguel but also the entire convoluted lie about how Celine and I knowing each other, from my boss.

Every morning, I check my calendar and count the hours until our next meeting, dreading the subtle ways she reminds me that she knew Miguel first, knew him better. That she’s still an irreplaceable part of his world—of their world.

‘Just be careful,’ Linda warned me yesterday, after another tense meeting where Celine casually dropped comments about Felicity into our contract discussions. ‘She’s playing chess while everyone else is playing checkers.’

She’s right. Every interaction feels calculated, like Celine’s testing how long I can maintain this careful balance between personal and professional. Like yesterday, during our contract review…

‘Here are the revised contract drafts,’ I say, sliding the documents across my desk to Celine. Three weeks of carefully navigated meetings have settled into an uneasy rhythm. Our exchanges remain perfectly professional, razor-sharp edges wrapped in polite smiles.

‘Mmm,’ Celine murmurs, flipping through the pages with practiced efficiency. ‘Very thorough. You remind me of Miguel, actually. He used to get so caught up in the details when we were married.’ Her voice carries a hint of fondness that makes my stomach clench. ‘He’d spread contracts all over our kitchen table, completely lose track of time.’

I force my expression to remain neutral, though my grip tightens on my pen. Every conversation somehow circles back to this, subtle reminders of their shared history, little glimpses of their life together that feel like paper cuts to my confidence.

‘Speaking of details,’ she continues, perfectly pleasant, ‘there’s something about clause 4.2 that feels…familiar. Miguel used similar language in one of his contracts last year. Have you been consulting with him?’

The implication hangs in the air, that I would allow my personal life to make me break attorney client privilege. It takes everything I have not to lash out here but Felicity’s sweet face flashes through my head.

‘Actually,’ I keep my voice steady, ‘that’s standard language for this type of agreement. I’m sure if you compare it to any other phrasing in your previous contracts⁠—’

A knock at my door saves me from finishing. Linda pokes her head in, her expression concerned. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but Mr. Whitman needs those revisions for the Morrison brief.’

‘Of course,’ I say, perhaps too quickly. ‘Mrs. Ramirez, shall we continue this At our next meeting?’

‘Oh, certainly.’ Celine gathers her things with elegant efficiency. ‘I know how demanding it can be working at such a high profile firm. Miguel always said the key was finding the right balance.’ She pauses at the door, that perfect smile still in place. ‘But I’m sure you two have figured that out by now.’

The door clicks shut behind her, and I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding.

‘You okay?’ Linda asks softly.

‘Fine,’ I say automatically, then reconsider. ‘No. Maybe. I don’t know.’ I run a hand through my hair, disturbing its careful styling. ‘Every conversation feels like a minefield. Like she’s testing me.’

Linda’s expression softens. ‘She’s trying to figure out if you’re good enough for them – for Miguel, for Felicity. For the life she left behind.’

‘This is supposed to be professional,’ I protest weakly. “She’s putting my career on the line and she knows,” I point my finger then lower my voice, “she knows she has me between a rock and a hard place because what—” my chin begins to quiver but refuse to let myself fall apart at work.

‘Honey,’ Linda says, her voice gentle but firm, ‘nothing about this situation is just professional. The sooner you accept that, the easier it’ll be to handle.’

I stare at the contracts on my desk, at the neat annotations in Celine’s elegant handwriting. She’s right—there’s nothing simple about this. Every interaction is layered with history I wasn’t part of, with expectations I’m not sure how to meet.

‘What do I do?’ I ask, hating how small my voice sounds.

‘You do your job,’ Linda says simply. ‘You be professional, be thorough, and most importantly, be yourself. Because trying to compete with a ghost will only drive you crazy.’

I nod, straightening my shoulders. She’s right. I can do this. I have to do this.

But as I turn back to my work, I can’t help but wonder if there will ever be enough room in this family for both of us, the woman who was there first, and the woman who came after. I stare out my window for several minutes, trying to figure out how to tell Miguel without making it feel like I’m asking him to fight my battles for me…but it feels hopeless.

The first sign that today is going to test my sanity arrives in the form of an email from Cameron.

Greetings, fellow spiritual traveler. In alignment with the universe’s divine plan, I request one last meeting to discuss the contract’s energetic implications. Namaste.

‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!’ I groan, staring at my screen, wondering if Mercury being in retrograde is a valid reason to call in sick.

I should have known after the most perfect weekend, complete with princess pancakes on Saturday morning with Felicity and Miguel, and not an ounce of the extreme awkwardness I expected to come with the first morning after I stayed over when Felicity was there.

Enjoy it while it lasts.

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push the still-nagging knot that’s rooted so deep in my stomach now I’m half convinced it’s a full-on ulcer. From the second I stepped out of that new client meeting with my boss and Celine, my stomach started churning.

‘She’s not even a client,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘It was just a new client meeting; she hasn’t signed a contract; she hasn’t placed a retainer,’ I remind myself, after checking to make sure the second I got into the office this morning.

So technically… TECHNICALLY, I’m not doing anything wrong.

That’s the same excuse I said over and over and over again in my head this weekend until I was finally able to drown it out the second Miguel kissed me when we got back from the zoo. I smile, my body growing warm at the memory of the hours I spent beneath him, on top of him, in front of him…

‘Miss Mason?’ Linda appears in my doorway, taking in the color-coded files now spanning every surface of my office. ‘Your ten o’clock is here. Though, I should warn you…’

Before she can finish, Cameron sweeps in, wearing what appears to be meditation robes and carrying… is that a crystal pyramid?

He’s already on my schedule! Time to tell Linda to put him on the blacklist.

I’m still replaying Celine’s latest subtle dig when Cameron bursts into my office, sage bundle in hand and a manic gleam in his eye that makes my already fraying nerves snap completely.

‘Mia!’ he declares, waving the smoking bundle like some deranged spiritual warrior. ‘Your aura needs immediate attention!’

I shoot Linda a desperate look, but she’s already backing away, mouthing ‘good luck’ as she escapes.

‘Cameron,’ I manage, professional mask firmly in place. ‘I wasn’t expecting… any of this. In fact, I didn’t expect to ever see you again.’ I can’t let the chance to offer a bit of a snide remark pass by.

‘The universe guides us where we need to be,’ he says sagely, setting up his crystal pyramid on my newly organized desk. ‘And right now, it’s guiding us toward contract enlightenment.’

‘Right. About our last conversation⁠—’

‘First,’ he interrupts, pulling out what I recognize with growing horror as a sage bundle, ‘we must cleanse the negative energies. Your corporate vibrations are seriously misaligned.’

‘We can’t burn sage in my office again!’ But he’s already lighting it, waving it around my meticulously organized space while chanting something about chakras. I can feel the anger start to radiate through my body and I know I’m about to blow. Like Mt. St. Helens style.

‘GET OUT!’ I yell, my finger trembling as I point toward the door. My voice echoes off the walls of my office, drowning out Cameron’s chanting and the faint crackling of the burning sage.

Cameron freezes mid-wave, the sage bundle still smoldering in his hand. His serene expression falters, replaced by a wide-eyed look of disbelief.

‘Mia,’ he begins, his tone now alarmingly calm, as if speaking to a wild animal. ‘This resistance to cleansing energy⁠—’

‘Cameron, I swear to God,’ I snap, grabbing the sage out of his hand and stubbing it out in my coffee mug. The bitter smell of extinguished herbs fills the room as I jab my finger at the crystal pyramid on my desk. ‘And this? What even is this?’

‘It’s a crystal pyramid,’ he says, his voice dripping with faux patience.

‘I know that! Why is it in my office?’

‘To channel positive vibrations into the contract⁠—’

‘Get it off my desk before I throw it out the window!’ I bark, my tone leaving no room for argument.

Before Cameron can respond, the door creaks open again, and in steps Jasmine, his so-called life coach, wearing flowing linen pants and an oversized scarf that looks like she raided Stevie Nicks’ closet.

‘Cameron, love, is everything alright?’ she coos, eyeing the chaos with mild amusement.

‘Oh, great,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘The enabler is here.’

Jasmine places a hand on her heart and tilts her head at me, her voice dripping with condescension. ‘Mia, your energy is practically screaming. Have you considered journaling your frustrations? Perhaps⁠—’

‘That’s it!’ I cut her off, standing so abruptly that my chair wheels backward and bangs against the wall. ‘Cameron, Jasmine, you’re officially banned from the premises. Both of you!’

They stare at me, stunned into silence for the first time since they arrived.

‘You’re done,’ I continue, my voice firm and loud enough to ensure it carries into the hallway. ‘Cameron, I told you before—find another lawyer. I mean it. I’m not working with you anymore. I’ve been polite. I’ve been patient. But this?’ I gesture wildly at the crystal pyramid and the faint plume of sage smoke still rising from my mug. ‘This is the final straw. I’m not your lawyer, your therapist, or your spiritual punching bag. Find someone else!’

Cameron opens his mouth, but no words come out. Jasmine looks like she’s just been told kale is bad for you.

I cross my arms, glaring at them. ‘You’re banned. Permanently. Now go!’

Cameron finally recovers, straightening his robes with as much dignity as he can muster. ‘I… I see. Clearly, your energy is not ready for alignment.’

Jasmine nods solemnly. ‘A lesson in letting go, perhaps.’

‘Out!’ I repeat, pointing again.

They shuffle toward the door, looking like scolded children, and I follow them into the hallway to make sure they’re actually leaving.

As they disappear around the corner, I let out a long, frustrated breath, muttering to myself, ‘Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.’

‘Mia?’

The voice startles me, and I spin around to see Linda standing in the hallway, her mouth hanging open like she’s just witnessed a live-action soap opera.

‘What?’ I ask, smoothing my hair, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism.

Linda doesn’t answer. Her gaze drifts past me, and I follow it, my stomach dropping when I see my boss, Mr. Whitman, standing a few feet away.

And beside him? None other than Celine Ramirez, looking as polished and smug as ever.

For a moment, none of us say anything. The silence stretches unbearably, broken only by the sound of my coffee mug being knocked over on my desk behind me.

Mr. Whitman clears his throat, his expression unreadable but decidedly not pleased. “Miss Mason, I don’t know what I’m interrupting, something you and I will discuss at a later date,” he says through gritted teeth.

Behind me, I hear Linda inhale sharply, no doubt bracing herself for my reaction.

I take a deep breath, plastering on the most professional smile I can manage. “Of course sir, Miss Ramirez,” I attempt to nod politely at both of them.

“Excellent,” he forces a smile, glancing over at Celine. “Miss Mason, we’ll leave you to it for now, miss Ramirez and I will continue discussions in my office.”

“Thanks again sir,” I smile politely at both of them until they walk away. That nagging feeling rushing back, making my stomach flip. I turn and head back into my office, closing the door behind me. As soon as I’m out of sight, I lean against the door and bang my head lightly against it.

‘This day,’ I whisper to myself, ‘is trying to kill me.’

I pace the length of my office, my mind racing. My heels click against the tile, the sound almost drowning out the pounding in my chest. Okay, okay, think, I tell myself. There has to be a way out of this.

Celine Ramirez. Lead attorney. Ethical violations. The words swirl in my head like a toxic cocktail.

If I’m not the lead attorney, then maybe—just maybe—it’s not an ethical violation. Right? If someone else takes the lead and I’m just assisting, it could technically be okay. Maybe.

Except it’s not okay, and I know it. I know it the same way I know that Whitman and the partners will absolutely see this case as my big break—a chance to prove myself, to finally step into the spotlight after years of clawing my way up the firm’s ladder.

And now, because of this, I either have to walk away from the opportunity of a lifetime or—what?—end things with Miguel? Just thinking about it makes my stomach churn.

I stop pacing, pressing the heels of my hands into my temples. ‘This is so unfair,’ I mutter to the empty room.

I shouldn’t have to be the one changing my life. I shouldn’t have to decide between my career and the first relationship that’s made me feel alive in years. Celine chose this law firm because I work here—I know it. I don’t have proof, but it can’t be a coincidence.

I take a deep breath, shaking my head as I grab my phone off the desk. Maybe if I talk to Miguel, I can figure this out. Maybe he knows something—anything—that can help me make sense of this mess.

I open our text thread and hover over the keyboard. How do I even ask this? I type, delete, and retype a dozen different versions before settling on something straightforward.

The three dots appear almost immediately.

My stomach drops.

Official. Spending time with Felicity. Meeting his ex-wife. The words hit me like a freight train, and my mind spirals further into panic.

Official? Is that what we are now? He’s introducing me to his daughter’s mother like we’re the Brady Bunch 2.0, and I’m over here trying to figure out if my entire career is about to go up in flames.

Speaking of flames…

The faint smell of smoke wafts through the air, and I pause, sniffing the air. ‘What the⁠—’

I turn and freeze, my eyes widening in horror when I see what I must have knocked into the garbage. The sage bundle that Cameron so thoughtfully left behind is smoldering in the trash can, a small flame licking up the edge of a paper file.

‘Oh my God!’ I shout, rushing over. I grab the closest thing I can find—a water bottle—and dump it into the trash can.

For a second, I think it works. The flames sputter, but then the smoke thickens, and the fire flares back to life, licking at the edges of my perfectly organized trash bin.

‘Oh no, no, no!’ I grab a file folder and start swatting at the flames, but it only seems to make them worse.

Before I can figure out what else to do, the sprinkler system kicks in with a deafening click.

Water pours from the ceiling, soaking everything—the trash can, my desk, my files, my hair. I let out a frustrated scream, holding my arms over my head as the fire alarm blares through the building.

The door to my office flies open, and Linda bursts in, her hair already damp from the sprinklers. ‘What the hell is going on in here?’ she yells over the noise.

I point helplessly at the trash can. ‘It was the sage! Cameron left the sage!’

She stares at me for a moment, her mouth open, and then bursts out laughing. ‘Oh my God, Mia. Only you.’

‘This is not funny, Linda!’ I snap, though the absurdity of the situation makes it hard to keep a straight face.

Before I can say anything else, two of the firm’s security guards appear in the doorway, followed closely by none other than Mr. Whitman and Celine. As if Cameron’s sage ceremony wasn’t enough of a professional nightmare, I catch Celine watching from the end of the hallway, her expression unreadable. Perfect. Just perfect.

You have got be kidding me. Does this woman have a hot line for my meltdowns!

‘Miss Mason,’ Whitman says, his tone sharp, his expression a mix of confusion and exasperation. ‘Care to explain why the entire building is being evacuated?’

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. I’m soaked, standing in a puddle of water next to a smoldering trash can, while Celine stands there the image of perfection.

Celine’s perfectly arched brow lifts as she surveys the chaos. ‘Eventful day, I see,’ she says, her voice dripping with fake concern.

I take a deep breath, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. ‘Just a little office mishap.’

Whitman pinches the bridge of his nose. ‘Mason, get this cleaned up. And when you’re done, meet me in my office. We need to talk about the Ramirez case.’

I nod mutely as they turn and walk away, leaving Linda and me standing in the drenched remains of what was once my office.

She snorts, shaking her head as she surveys the damage. ‘You’re a walking sitcom, you know that?’

‘Don’t,’ I groan, slumping into my soaked chair.

She grins. ‘You know, I heard sage is supposed to clear out bad vibes. Looks like you might have missed a spot.’

I bury my face in my hands, muttering, ‘I am so screwed.’

By the time I step into Mr. Whitman’s office, my clothes are damp, my hair is a mess, and my nerves are shot. I take a deep breath, clutching the folder I managed to salvage from my office as I walk through the door.

He’s seated behind his massive desk, his expression unreadable as he gestures for me to sit.

‘Miss Mason,’ he begins, folding his hands on the desk, ‘I’d ask how your morning is going, but I think we both know the answer to that.’

I lower myself into the chair, the faint squish of my wet clothes against the leather making me cringe. ‘Mr. Whitman, I want to start by apologizing. For the sprinklers, the fire alarm, the… everything. It was a disaster, and I take full responsibility for my part in it.’

His brows lift, but he doesn’t say anything, so I press on.

‘And about Cameron,’ I add, gripping the folder tightly. ‘The man you probably saw fleeing the building in meditation robes? He’s my ex. He’s been a… lingering presence in my life, and today, I lost my temper. It was unprofessional and unacceptable, and I take full responsibility for that, too.’

For a long moment, Mr. Whitman doesn’t respond. He leans back in his chair, studying me with an intensity that makes my stomach churn. I brace myself for the lecture of a lifetime, but instead, his expression softens.

‘Cameron, huh?’ he says, shaking his head with a wry smile. ‘Let me tell you something, Mia. I handled my ex-wife’s legal affairs for years after we divorced. Even after I got remarried, I couldn’t seem to let it go—until my wife finally put her foot down and told me enough was enough.’

I blink, caught off guard by the unexpected turn in the conversation.

He chuckles, rubbing a hand over his jaw. ‘I get it. Relationships—especially the messy ones—have a way of following us around. Doesn’t make your outburst any less unprofessional, but… I understand where it came from.’

Relief washes over me, and I feel the corners of my mouth twitch upward. ‘Thank you, Mr. Whitman. That means a lot.’

‘Don’t thank me yet,’ he says, his tone growing serious, ‘because we still need to talk about the Ramirez case.’

I sit up straighter, my nerves flaring again.

‘You’ve got potential, Mia,’ he continues, his gaze steady. ‘We’ve all seen it—the partners, myself included. You’re a bright legal mind, and you’ve got the drive and ambition to match. That’s why we wanted you to take the lead on this case.’

My throat tightens, but I nod, determined to stay composed.

‘This is a big opportunity,’ he says, leaning forward slightly. ‘Handling a client like Celine Ramirez means taking the reins, managing her business interests, and representing the firm at the highest level. It’s not just about the legal work—it’s about trust, leadership, and responsibility. Are you ready for that?’

‘Yes,’ I say, my voice firm. ‘I’m ready.’

He studies me for a moment, then nods. ‘Good. Because I think you are, too. Don’t make me regret it.’

‘I won’t,’ I promise, the weight of his words settling on my shoulders.

I rise to leave, clutching my folder tightly as I head for the door. But just as my hand touches the doorknob, I stop.

‘Mr. Whitman,’ I say, turning back to face him.

He arches a brow. ‘Yes?’

I take a deep breath, steeling myself.

Shit… here it goes.

‘I need to tell you something.’