Chapter 1 

Tracey

The gavel cracks, and the sound is laughably small for the two hundred million dollars I just saved Amalgamated Investments. It’s a clean kill. The air in the courtroom is thick with expensive suits, stale coffee, and the quiet, metallic tang of my victory.

Richard Prentiss, opposing counsel and a man who genuinely still uses a pocket watch, runs a hand over his slicked-back gray hair. He gives me a stiff nod across the aisle. “Blocker. You bled me dry.”

I offer him the thinnest of smiles, the one I reserve for men who underestimate me. “Their discovery was sloppy, Richard. You should have caught it.”

I stand, and the scrape of my chair is the only sound I make. My junior associate, Kendi, is practically vibrating beside me. She’s twenty-four and still believes in justice. It’s adorable.

“Ms. Blocker, that was… surgical,” she whispers, her eyes wide as she gathers my files.

I adjust the cuff of my silk shell, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle. 

My phone is already buzzing in my hand, but I ignore it. I ignore the pats on the back from partners who see me as a line item on their profit-and-loss statement. I ignore it all until the hiss of the elevator doors closes me in, and I’m alone.

The win should feel like champagne. Instead, it tastes like ash.

My apartment is a shrine to greyscale, forty floors above Chicago. Floor-to-ceiling windows display the city like a carpet of diamonds I have no interest in touching. It’s silent. It’s orderly. It’s a fortress I built myself, and some days, it feels like a prison.

I drop my keys—a heavy, satisfying thud—into a glass bowl. I unpin the sleek, protective twist I wear to court, and my coily hair springs free, a riot of dark curls I only allow in private. This is the first mask coming off.

I toe off my Louboutins, the ones I bought when I made partner, and pad barefoot to the kitchen. I don't bother with a glass. I pull the Lagavulin 16 from the cabinet and take a small, neat sip straight from the bottle. It’s all peat and smoke, a controlled burn. The only kind of fire I allow.

My phone buzzes again. This time, I look.

Caller ID: Mother.

I swear under my breath. My thumb instinctively finds the small, slick ridge of scar tissue on my left palm. A tiny, permanent reminder of Euginia, a broken glass, and a story my mother has retold for twenty years, polishing it until I’m the villain and Eugi is the innocent victim. I rub the scar.

I let it ring twice more before picking up, schooling my features into neutrality even though she can't see me. "Hello, Mother."

“Tracey, darling! I saw the news alert! You won!” Her voice is a flute of expensive champagne, all bubbles and forced cheer. “I was just telling the girls at the club, 'My Tracey just dominated the Barrows case!' We are so proud.”

My Tracey. A possession. Like her tennis bracelet.

“Hello, Mother. I’m glad it made for good luncheon gossip.” I take another sip of the whiskey.

“Oh, you and your dry sense of humor,” she laughs, completely missing the barb. “Now, listen, you’re still coming for Christmas, correct? You can’t back out. I’ve already had your room aired out.”

“The twenty-third. My flight lands at four. Same as I told you last week.”

“Are you sure you can’t come in tomorrow? The twenty-first? Miles is arriving then, too.”

My spine stiffens. “Miles? Who is Miles?”

“David’s old friend from college, Robert’s son! Remember the Bowmans? He’s a doctor. A pediatric surgeon, Tracey. And he’s lovely. He’s staying through the New Year.” She drops her voice, as if sharing a state secret. “Single. Very single.”

And there it is. The annual ‘Let’s Fix Tracey’s Sad, Single Life’ project. It’s as traditional as the god-awful tinsel my stepfather insists on using.

“Mother, I am not coming a day early to be paraded in front of some surgeon. I have to close out the quarter. I’ll be there on the twenty-third.” My voice is clipped. Precise. The one I use in depositions.

“Always business with you,” she sighs, a gust of performative disappointment. “Fine, fine. But honestly, Tracey, it wouldn't kill you to be a little… available. Euginia has the right idea.”

My grip tightens on the bottle. And here comes the main event.

“What about Euginia?”

“Oh, she’s just glowing!” my mother gushes. “She’s bringing her new beau home for Christmas! It’s the first one she’s ever brought home, so you know it's serious. They’ve only been seeing each other a couple of months, but honestly, I think this is it!”

I slide down the cold kitchen cabinet until I’m sitting on the polished concrete floor. Of course she is. Euginia, my half-sister, the "golden child," who got our mother’s easy smile and our stepfather’s easy-going last name. Euginia, who collects perfect moments the way I collect billable hours.

“His name is Joseph,” my mother continues, oblivious. “An architect! Isn't that wonderful? So creative! And Tracey… he is divine. Just devastatingly handsome. And he’s so good to her. They’re just the perfect, perfect couple.”

Joseph.

The name is a sucker punch to the gut. A cold, sudden shock that steals my breath.

It can't be.

It’s a common name. It’s a stupid, common name. It is not him. It can't be.

“...and he’s tall, too!” my mother is saying. “You know Euginia loves a tall man. She’s just so, so happy.”

My Joseph was tall. My Joseph was an architect. My Joseph was the only person who ever saw me underneath the armor, the girl who liked classic R&B and hated losing at Scrabble.

My Joseph is also the man who, five years ago, disappeared from my life after graduation. No text. No call. No goodbye. He ghosted me so completely I thought he might actually be dead. His absence is the hollow place inside me that no courtroom victory can fill.

“Tracey? Are you still there? You went quiet.”

I force air back into my lungs. My heart is hammering against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Get a grip, Blocker. The odds are astronomical. It is not him.

“I’m here,” I manage. My voice sounds strange, distant. “An architect. How nice.”

“'Nice'? He’s splendid! I just know you’ll… well, you’ll be polite, won’t you, dear?”

The implication hangs in the air. Don’t be you. Don’t be the difficult one. Don’t ruin this for Euginia.

“I’m always polite, Mother.” I rub the rough scar on my palm, so hard it burns. “I have to go. I have briefs to review before I pack.”

“Of course, darling. We’ll see you on the twenty-third! Try to find something festive to wear!”

The line clicks dead.

I’m left in the ringing silence of my perfect, empty apartment. The whiskey in my stomach feels like poison.

It’s not him.

I repeat it like a mantra. It’s not him. It’s not him.

I stand on shaky legs and walk to my bedroom. I pull my largest suitcase from the closet. The dread is a physical weight, cold and heavy. I’m not going home for Christmas. I’m walking into a deposition, and I don't know who or what is on the other side of the table.

I open my drawers. The silk shells. The cashmere sweaters. The tailored trousers. All black, all gray, all navy. My armor.

I check my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling window. My face is a pale oval against the glittering, indifferent city. My eyes are sharp, guarded.

It doesn’t matter who he is.

I snap the suitcase shut. Euginia can have her divine surprise. I’ve got my bonus.

We all play to our strengths.