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Chapter One
Tor
Two things in this world excite me.
Winning.
And not losing.
I’m a single-minded predator who takes no prisoners. I’m not there to bring people together. I’m there to bulldoze proceedings, blow up precedent, and exploit every fucking weakness.
I come at every divorce case like an angry grizzly bear.
The job itself sucks. But the winning? Does not.
I’m driven to right the wrongs of the past, without caring who gets destroyed in the process.
Ninety-nine percent of my clients are women, by my own choice. I like women. And I like fucking over the men who made their lives hell. That’s not to say some of my female clients aren’t equal contributing factors in the demise of their marriages. I’ve just spun my business model in their direction, so they tend to be the ones that seek me out.
I’m a pain in the ass to work with. I know that.
My insane drive to come out on top has made me a shitty colleague. I see it on the faces of the paralegals, assistants, interns, opposing counsel, admins. Fear, mostly.
As managing partner of Hicks, Saman and Blunt, I’m supposed to be setting an example, but turns out I suck at setting examples, except when it comes to my case record. There, I’m on top. Always.
But as for the rest of it? The protocols and politeness and all that shit?
Let’s just say, there have been… complaints. A lot of them. HR hates my guts. And now, after the fifth anonymous complaint called in to our bullshit “Speak Up” program, some cream-centered staff member is fucking with my time.
I’m stuck wasting half my day tomorrow sitting in on an Intensive Anger Management Training session.
Fuckers.
I agreed, in order to appease the HR gods at their altar of three-ring binders. I agreed to avoid a potential lawsuit, and trouble with the bar association should things get worse. I agreed to the lesser pain to avoid the bigger one.
But it’s gonna be such bullshit.
Tomorrow, my anger will be managed. Or elevated.
I’m betting on the latter.
Because, in order to appease another God, named Gran, I agreed to go on a blind date tonight.
More bullshit.
I’m in a genuinely shitty mood as I bring the white porcelain cup of steaming Turkish coffee to my lips and glance at the wall where an image of a pepperoni pizza doubles as a clock.
At least I made the date at my sister’s restaurant, so I know the food will be good.
The sous chef chopping on the stainless-steel counter sounds like the rat-tat-tat of a machine gun.
“This is a fucking waste of time,” I mutter as I stare at the clock hands, willing them to go faster. The sooner the time comes, the sooner I can duck out and get back to my life.
How many grandsons have given up a perfectly good evening alone to go on a blind date, just because their grandmother is a master manipulator?
If she thinks there’s any chance I’ll find a wife in the deal, she’s all wrong. She thinks at thirty-six years old, I should have this marriage and family deal worked out, but it’s never been my focus and I doubt it ever will be.
“Tor!” My brother’s voice mixes with the sounds of the busy kitchen.
