Page 109 of Nobody Told Me Thrift Shops Sell Stolen Dragon Heirlooms

“Right now?”

“She said as soon as you got in.”

“What about?” I asked.

Moira shrugged. “I assume the gala.”

“Good gala? Bad gala? Why did you speak without a partner present gala? Why is the dragon client suddenly requesting you specifically gala?”

Moira tilted her head. “Is he?”

“No,” I said too quickly.

Her eyebrows rose.

“I mean, he said I should be at the Friday meeting because I was there last night and Georgiana asked if I would be.”

“Mm-hmm.”

I pointed at her. “Do not start.”

“I have started nothing. I’m a blank slate wearing heels. And you’re stalling.”

I was absolutely stalling.

Helena Wallace wasn’t cruel. She was too efficient for cruelty. Cruelty required extra time and usually follow-up questions. Helena could start and end a meeting in seven minutes, leave everyone grateful for the clarity, and still make you realize two hours later that she’d surgically removed your illusions about your career prospects.

She was one of the reasons I wanted to work here. She was also one of the reasons my nervous system treated every summons from her office like a severe weather warning.

I smoothed my blazer. “Did she sound mad?”

“She didn’t sound mad. She sounded focused.” She squeezed my arm, quick and firm. “Listen to me. The whole firm is buzzing because a major client took you to a gala, and now there’s movement on a stalled restitution claim. That is good. Let it be good until someone proves otherwise.”

I nodded.

Let it be good.

A simple instruction. Nearly impossible. My brain preferred to keep a disaster menu laminated and ready for service.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m letting it be good.”

“That’s my girl.” She released me and stepped back. “Go.”

Every step seemed louder than it needed to be as I moved down the gray-carpeted hallway with its glass walls. Assistants moved briskly between stations, associates stared at screens. A few people looked up as I passed. One paralegal gave me a small thumbs-up from behind a stack of binders. Cressler’s office door was closed, but I could hear his voice inside, brisk and irritated, saying “Friday changes the timeline.”

Friday changes the timeline.

My timeline, maybe.

The thought was too large, so I ignored it and focused on the tasks at hand.

Get to Helena’s office. Answer questions. Do not ramble. Do not think about Rafe’s text.

Helena’s assistant, Beatrice, looked up as I approached. She was in her sixties and rumored to know where at least five bodies were buried, metaphorically, but possibly not.

“Ms. Bradley,” she said. “She’s expecting you.”

“Great,” I said, which wasn’t the word my internal organs would have chosen.