Oliver
That afternoon, I sit outside the conference room on the plush top floor of the AGS offices, waiting to be
called inside. Warren came out ten minutes ago, but gave nothing away as he passed me. Today is the day
that the committee will vote on who should be the next equity partner.
If someone had asked me a month ago what I wanted most in my life, this would have been the answer.
The EP position r epresents my success, my value, and everything I have worked so hard for.
But now I can barely muster the energy to enter the room, let alone care about the outcome.
Lissa left at lunchtime. She didn’t speak or look at me as she left, explaining to Adelaide that it was
because her personal circumstances had changed.
I k ept the door open, listening as they said goodbye. Adelaide came into my office five minutes later,
told me she was going to lunch, and left. She hasn’t spoken to me since.
Lissa didn’t even say goodbye. But what did I expect? I’d basically dismissed her from the position, and
despite my telling her to stay at AGS for as long as she needed, I should have known she would leave as
soon as she could.
Why would she stay just to be forced to put up with my perverse desires and scarred, ugly body? She’s
better off without me.
“Oliver!” I look up to find Tom Burton standing in the doorway, frowning at me. It’s clearly not the first
time he’s said my name.
I rise, smooth down my tie, and walk in. The room is one I’ve only been into a few times over the years.
It’s used almost exclusively by the senior partners and the board. It has a high ceiling, two walls of large
glass windows, and stunning views of the city.
There are seven intimidating men sitting around the table. I clench my jaw at the lack of diversity.
They’re all white men, staring at me moodily as if they would rather be anywhere else right now.
Is it me, or is it cold in here? I take a seat, watching Tom do the same on the other side of me. I’ve
known all of these men for over a decade. None of them is younger than fifty, and they watch me coldly as I
settle into my seat.
“Thank you for coming in,” Tom says, pulling a sheet of paper toward him and looking up at me with a
dark stare.
Something is off in here. “I’ll get right to it, Oliver,” Tom begins, as three of those around him shift
forward in their seats. “The equity partner decision has been made, and we have chosen Warren Sutcliffe.”
My spine straightens as I glance along the table, focusing on each man individually. Only two of them
meet my gaze.
I don’t know why I expected anything different than this. Sutcliffe isn’t the right choice, and it’s almost
as if they all know that, but they’ve done it anyway.
I have brought in dozens of high-paying clients to this firm over the years. Even before I made partner, I
was outperforming every other senior associate. My mentorship program has developed some of the best
lawyers we have, and, unlike Sutcliffe, I retain my staff for years. His churn rate is the highest in the firm.
I’m not as personable as him, sure. I don’t play golf; I don’t circulate at parties or get drunk and fall in
swimming pools, something Sutcliffe has done more than once. But I’m a damned good lawyer.
“I see,” I say without inflection. There is a long pause, and the large, ornate clock on the wall ticks
loudly as one of the men at the end of the table picks up his phone as if he’s bored.
Unsure what else there is to discuss, I move back in my chair as if to leave, wondering if that’s what
they’re waiting for, but then Tom raises a hand.
“You would have been our first choice, Oliver. I hope you realize that. But we have to make this
decision with the best interests of the firm in mind, and some of your conduct lately has been circumspect,
to say the least.”
I stare at him, genuinely astounded by his choice of words. My conduct? What does he know?
“Could you explain?” I ask, and someone scoffs. I’m not sure which one of the crusty old men it is.
“You took on a pro bono case recently, did you not?” Tom asks, as one of the men hands him a thick
black folder. When he opens it, I can see an email inside that’s several paragraphs long. I strain to see who
sent it, but the text is too small.
“I did,” I concede. “Did you think that was a wise decision? To prioritize something that had little value
to the firm and at the detriment of the Reynolds case?”
“Detriment?” I ask incredulously. “I hardly think it had an impact.” “Ah. Well, I’m glad you’re able to
clarify things for me,” Tom says sharply.
“It’s not unusual for partners to take on pro bono work. If anything, it gives the firm a better r eputation. I
would’ve thought it would be a benefit, and it took up very little of my time.”
“I imagine it benefited Melissa Davenport as well. She recently began working with you as your EA, did
she not?”
“She did,” I r eply. “And you’ve been sle eping with her for the majority of that time, correct?”
I go still, staring at Tom in abject shock. It’s not even that he knows about me sle eping with Lissa that
astounds me, but that he’s weaponizing it against me in this room, when I know for a fact he has had affairs
with not one but several of his junior associates over the years. One of them was twenty years younger than
him.
“Is that relevant?” I ask, and the scoff comes again. This time, I can see it is Miles De-Vere, the biggest
man-whore I’ve ever met.
“Other than the fact that it’s an ethics violation, you mean?” Tom asks. I can’t help but chuckle at that
and I’m met with seven stoic, furious glares in return.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
If we were going by the rulebook, every single man sitting in front of me has committed an ethics
violation at some point.
The number of cases they have taken on because a buddy needed their help, or their nanny was going to
be d eported, or their wife pissed off the wrong member of the country club. And they have the gall to sit
there and tell me I’ve violated the firm’s ethics code for half a day’s work to save a single mother from an
abusive ex.
The fuckers. By the expressions on the faces of the men surrounding me, I can tell that they’re expecting
me to apologize. They were probably imagining a groveling scene where I begged them for forgiveness,
promised to do better, and publicly flogged myself for my terrible decisions.
Well, fuck that. I have worked my ass off for this place for nearly fifteen years. I’ve brought in millions
of dollars in revenue and three of the largest clients on their books.
I’ve spent nights and days toiling over files, picking up cases from others who have young children,
covering for the men in this room, and for what? For my seat to go to some spineless piece of shit I could
run circles around.
“You’ll be under review for the next two weeks, during which we will analyze the extent of your
actions,” Tom says smugly. “I would ke ep that in mind and focus on the work that the firm has assigned
you, Oliver.”
“That won’t be necessary,” I say decisively, ke eping my voice low and level. I’m not going to give this
shithead the satisfaction of hearing me raise my voice.
“I’m sorry?” he asks, looking up at me, confused. They’re arrogant enough not to have seen this coming.
In the absence of self-flagellation, they’ll expect me to storm out or maybe threaten them with a lawsuit of
my own. They won’t expect what’s coming.
“I resign,” I say firmly, and it’s satisfying to see seven faces go from smug superiority to alarm in the
space of five seconds. Tom splutters indignantly.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Oliver, that’s not—” “No. I’m not being ridiculous, Tom. I resign. Now that I sit
here, in this little boy’s club you’ve built for yourselves, I don’t know why I didn’t do it
before. Good luck with Sutcliffe. I imagine he’ll be a catastrophic drain on your precious profits,
entertaining clients while doing no work whatsoever.”
Tom’s eyes are wide as I rise, his chin wobbling in outrage as he tries to come up with a suitable retort.
It’s the closest to panic I’ve ever seen from him.
“You’ll be working your notice,” he manages, but his voice is hoarse. “Of course. I would never leave
you in a lurch like that. Good day, gentlemen.”