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CHAPTER ONE

T he snow outside fell in thick, twirling flakes, soft as powdered sugar but with all the menace of an iced-over road.

Neighbors bustled past with hunched shoulders and red noses, stocking up on essentials like bread, milk, and enough hot cocoa to fuel a blizzard movie marathon.

At the corner gas station, cars lined up bumper to bumper, exhaust curling into the air like steam from a pressure cooker.

Even the most seasoned Midwesterners had that slight edge of panic in their step—the one that only came when a weather alert turned from advisory to warning.

Birdy Chou didn’t even glance at the small television screen in her office or out the window at the scene playing in reality. The storm could bury the whole town under a drift the size of her ambition, and she still wouldn’t budge from her desk.

She had a business to run, people depending on her, briefs that needed writing, and a deadline that had tiptoed past her like a thief.

“I’ll see you in court!” Across the room, a parrot flapped its wings with a dramatic rustle and clacked its beak in warning.

When Birdy didn't look up, the parrot tilted its head, feathers puffing with indignation.

It hopped once along its wooden stand, then again, and let out a louder, “Objection, your honor!”

“Did you say something, boss?” called Trudy from her place outside Birdy's office.

“No, that was just Hearsay.”

“Do you want me to take him with me over the weekend?” Trudy's voice sounded closer to Birdy's office door.

“Motion sustained!” squawked Hearsay from his perch in the corner of her office.

Birdy finally looked up, blinking as if surfacing from the deep end of a contract clause.

Trudy stood in the doorway, bundled in a puffy maroon coat with a chunky knit scarf looped twice around her neck.

Her purse dangled from one arm, her gloves already on, and her eyes were gently expectant—the way someone looks at a boss who doesn’t always know when to call it a day.

In the corner, Hearsay fluffed his vivid green and gold feathers, swiveling his head like a courtroom bailiff about to announce order. His glossy black eyes glinted with challenge as he tapped one clawed foot against the edge of his perch.

“Sign on the dotted line,” he muttered, then louder: “Your witness, prosecutor!”

Birdy sighed and leaned back in her chair, rolling the tension from her shoulders as she regarded her two most loyal officemates—one feathered, one fabulous. “Looks like you two are ready to clock out.”

Trudy smiled. “You’ve been at it since before sunrise. Even judges call recess.”

Birdy arched an eyebrow, but the tension behind it was already dissolving. She turned to Hearsay. “You want to go home with Trudy for the weekend?”

The parrot let out an enthusiastic whistle. “Sustained!”

“That’s a yes.” Trudy laughed, then took the handle of the birdcage in hand.

“Don’t bad-mouth me too much while you’re gone,” Birdy murmured.

The bird gave a contented chirp. “Objection overruled.”

“Traitor.”

Trudy adjusted her hold on the cage and gave Birdy a look—half affection, half concern. “Try to go home before the roads ice over, okay?”

“Go on, beat the storm.”

The door closed behind them. The silence in the office was immediate and absolute—except for the distant howl of wind and the muffled thrum of panic-driven foot traffic outside as the town braced for the snowstorm.

Birdy braced her hands on her desk, wishing her assistant and her bird had stayed and toughed it out with her. But not everyone was built like her.

That was something her ex-boyfriend—her only boyfriend—had told her point blank. Junior year of college, standing outside the library with a breakup latte in one hand and his “It’s not me, it’s you” speech in the other.

“You’re just... hard, Birdy. There’s no softness. No give. I need someone who’ll lean on me.”

She hadn’t understood the complaint then. Still didn’t. Why wait for someone to lean on when you could stand on your own?

Even as a kid, she’d rolled her eyes at fairy tales. Damsels tied to train tracks, locked in towers, curled up crying in pumpkin patches. There was always a sword nearby. Always a way out. She’d never understood why they didn't ever pick it up themselves.

Birdy had neither the time nor the temperament for snow flurries or sappy feelings. She did, however, have an inbox full of government forms, a laptop that hummed like a tired librarian, and a very real problem.

She hadn’t missed a statute of limitations or flubbed a court motion—God forbid. No, she’d forgotten something far more insidious: the biennial statement.

A simple, no-frills filing the state required every other year to confirm that her PLLC was still alive and well. It didn’t even require legal finesse—just a click, a fee, and a calendar reminder she’d clearly ignored.

And now? There was a message on her desk on government letterhead. This form will not be processed until the following business cycle.

Translation: she’d missed the window, would have to wait another thirty days for her practice to be back in good standing, and in the meantime, her lease, her insurance, and her bank account could all be at risk.

Birdy hadn’t lost a case. But she might lose professional credibility. And possibly her mind.

She clicked through the state’s business portal, trying to find a backdoor, a loophole, anything. The site loaded with all the charm of a DMV on a Monday.

Filing window closed. This entity is now listed as Delinquent – Not in Good Standing. Next eligible filing window: thirty days from now.

She stared at the screen like it had personally insulted her. Which, in a way, it had.

There was no phone number to call. No override button. Just a grayed-out “Submit” button and a chirpy message that read:

Need assistance? Our help desk is open Monday–Thursday, 10am–5pm.

It was Friday. At 4:47 p.m.

Birdy inhaled through her nose. The office smelled like burned coffee and lemon disinfectant. Not exactly inspiring—but then again, inspiration wasn’t her priority. Legitimacy was.

She picked up her phone and dialed the number for the State Business Licensing Department. It rang. And rang. And rang.

“Seriously?” she muttered. She still had ten minutes left before 5 p.m. “Government workers are supposed to be essential.”

A glance out the window showed the snow coming down in a white sheet.

She hung up and redialed. Same result. The little plastic snow globe on her desk—an ironic gift from her younger sister, depicting the town’s gazebo in a dreamy, glitter-snow haze—mocked her with every shake of her leg under the desk.

She opened the department’s website again and saw something new. It was a page that read: Need Help? Chat with an Agent 24/7.

Her fingers pounced on the keyboard like a tiger on a mouse.

User: I missed the deadline for filing my license application. I need to know if there’s a workaround or an appeal process.

Sharp. Clipped. All business. That was Birdy Chou. Why waste words on small talk when she could get right to the point?

She rubbed the back of her neck and leaned back in her chair, which squeaked in protest. The heating vent above her head blasted hot air. Outside, the snow continued to fall in thick, earnest flakes. The kind that whispered of cocoa and long conversations.

But Birdy didn’t do whispers. She did checkboxes.

As she waited for a reply, she felt the first tendrils of panic slide through her ribs like unwelcome houseguests.

This business—her firm, her clients—was the culmination of years of hard work, sacrifice, and putting her personal life on permanent pause.

She didn’t do this for prestige. She did it for the women who came through her doors, needing someone who wouldn’t flinch.

Divorce. Custody. Protective orders. Most of her clients were women looking for protection from men who swore they loved them—until they didn’t.

Some had accused Birdy of having a bias against men, but Birdy didn’t deal in feelings. She dealt in facts. And the facts were: men were more often the aggressors, women more often the victims, and she had no patience for gaslighting.

Not in court. Not in life.

Not from the ex-boyfriend who once sulked because she tried to pay for dinner or pouted when she changed a tire faster than he could find the number for Triple A. And certainly not from the man who dumped her after she disarmed a mugger—while he stood frozen beside her on the sidewalk.

If she didn’t get this license updated, she wouldn’t just lose the office she’d leased or the website she’d built—she’d lose her ability to stand between her clients and the people who wanted to silence them.

She’d lose control. And Birdy Chou did not lose control.

The cursor on the chat window blinked.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

And then… a reply.