Page 40 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Serena

M onday comes so quickly it feels like time's being fast-forwarded. I'm standing in my apartment at seven a.m., hands shaking a little as I pull my navy power suit from the closet. Caleb dropped me off an hour ago after I refused his offer to buy me something new.

"You have clothes at my place," he'd argued.

"Weekend clothes. Not 'destroy-my-enemy-in-the-boardroom' clothes."

“Then I’ll take you shopping.”

"No," I'd said, maybe a little too sharply. "I have to do this myself. In my own armor."

He'd understood, thankfully, thought he escorted me inside, checking every corner like the press might be hiding in my shower, before reluctantly leaving to prep at his office.

The apartment feels strange after spending the weekend at his penthouse—too quiet, too small, like trying on old clothes that don't quite fit anymore.

I squeeze into the skirt, tug the white silk blouse over my head, and note the dangerous, glowing hope that's been growing inside me all weekend.

Caleb texts while I'm fighting with my hair:

Caleb:

Car will be there at 8:30. Don't even think about taking an Uber.

Me:

Bossy.

Caleb:

You love it.

I do. God help me, I really do.

By the time his town car pulls up, I've stress-applied lipstick three times and changed my shoes twice. The driver opens the door and I slide in to find Caleb already inside, looking lethal in charcoal gray, his lucky burgundy tie perfect.

"Hi," I manage. “I didn’t expect to see you until we got there.”

"Couldn’t stay away." He takes in my suit, my carefully built armor. "You look ready to destroy someone."

"That's the plan."

"Good." He laces our fingers together, his thumb immediately finding that spot on my wrist that makes me shiver. "Everything OK? No reporters?"

"All clear. Your security sweep was very thorough."

"Should've just bought you something."

"I needed my armor." I smooth the skirt. "This suit has won wars."

"Lucky suit?"

"Lucky suit." I squeeze his hand harder than necessary. "I'm nervous."

"I know." He brings our joined hands to his lips, kisses my knuckles. "They should be nervous. Not you."

The city blurs past—glass and steel and Monday morning ambition. I realize this is what having a partner feels like. Someone riding shotgun when you're heading into battle.

"Whatever happens," Caleb says quietly, "we're OK, right? You and me?"

I turn to look at him. This man who dropped everything to save me. Who makes me laugh when I want to scream. Who loves me even after seeing all my messy, scared and broken parts. The only man who never flinched. Not once.

"Yeah," I say. "We're perfect."

"Good." Another kiss to my knuckles. "Because after we destroy them, I'm taking you to lunch. Somewhere terrible. With pancakes."

"Pancakes?"

"Victory pancakes are a tradition."

"Since when?"

"Since right now."

The car pulls up to Luminous, and my stomach drops. Last time I was here, security treated me like a criminal.

"Hey." Caleb cups my face, forces me to meet his eyes. "You own this. Walk in there like you already won. Because you have."

"Have I?"

"Maya's probably in handcuffs by now. So yes."

We walk through the lobby together, and every head turns. The security guard who followed me around won't make eye contact. The receptionist whispers frantically into her headset. I spot my team through the glass walls of our workspace—Lisa's crying, James looks shell-shocked.

The boardroom is packed. Richard Sterling at the head, looking exhausted. Patricia Wong from HR, unreadable as always. David gives us a small nod. The entire board, assembled like a jury.

And there, at the far end, Maya.

She won't look at me. Just stares at her hands while her lawyer whispers urgently in her ear.

"Serena," Richard says, gentler than I expected. "Thank you for coming."

"Didn't have much choice," I say, taking my seat next to Caleb.

"No," he agrees. "And before we proceed, on behalf of Luminous, I want to apologize for the… premature conclusions we came to, Serena."

Maya's head snaps up. This isn't the script she expected.

Richard continues, "I want to be clear. Serena, you've been a star employee for five years. Your campaigns have made us millions. Your team respects you. And we..." he looks around the table, "we failed you."

"Richard—" Patricia starts.

"No." He cuts her off. "We rushed to judgment based on weak proof and one person's word." His gaze lands on Maya, who shrinks. "We should have investigated more thoroughly. We should have trusted your work history."

"My client was simply—" Maya's lawyer, Mitchell, begins, but Caleb destroys him.

"Your client orchestrated systematic theft." Caleb pulls out documents. "We have proof."

He slides papers across the table. "Kiernan Webb's signed confession. He admits to cloning Serena's badge at Maya Bolton's request."

Maya goes white. "He's lying?—"

"We have the digital evidence." Caleb connects his laptop to the screen. Data flows—timestamps, access logs, everything Logan found. "Maya accessed restricted files using Serena's cloned credentials seventeen times. Always after hours. Always when Serena was elsewhere."

"We also have emails," David interrupts, sliding another folder over. "Deleted but recovered. Communications with Radiance dating back four months."

I watch Maya crumble as David reads her promises to deliver our campaign, her salary negotiations, her detailed descriptions of our creative process.

"Maya," I say, and my voice cuts through the room like glass breaking. She finally looks at me—really looks—and I see it all. The jealousy. The desperation. The hate. "Why?"

For a second, her mouth opens, but Mitchell grabs her arm, his voice sharp. "My client will not be answering any questions at this time."

"She doesn't need to," Caleb states. "The evidence speaks volumes."

Richard clears his throat. "Ms. Bolton, you're fired effective immediately. Our legal team will pursue criminal charges. Security's waiting."

Maya stands on shaking legs, looks at me once more then Mitchell's dragging her out.

"This isn't over," Mitchell threatens.

"It is," Richard cuts him off. "The FBI's downstairs waiting for you."

Maya makes a sound—half sob, half gasp—and then she's gone.

Silence.

"Well," Patricia says finally. "That was... eye-opening."

The board members all turn to me, nodding like dashboard bobbleheads, desperate to make this go away.

"Serena," Richard says. "Your suspension is lifted immediately, with full back pay."

"Thank you," I manage, still staring at the door Maya walked through.

"That's not all." He glances at the others, who nod for him to continue. "We'd like to offer you Vice President of Brand Strategy, effective immediately."

I blink. "Excuse me?"

"We want you to stay. To help clean up this mess. Rebuild trust. You'd have complete freedom—resources, budget, authority to recommend changes."

David smiles. "They need someone with integrity. You're the obvious choice."

I expect to feel thrilled. Instead, I feel.

.. empty. I stare at Richard, at the circle of expectant faces.

This is the moment I’ve dreamed of—vindication, promotion, power.

The ultimate win. But the triumph tastes like ash in my mouth.

I look at Caleb, and he gives me a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, a silent message: You don’t have to take it.

He sees it. He sees that the armor I wore in here feels like a cage now.

"I..." I clear my throat. "I appreciate the offer, Richard. I'll need some time to consider it."

"Of course." Richard actually smiles—real, not corporate. "Take your time. Just know it's yours if you want it."

"I'll be in touch."

He dismisses the meeting. Just like that. My entire career decided in fifteen minutes.

Caleb stands. "You did it," he says, low and proud.

"We did it," I correct, but I don't feel victorious. I feel... released. Like all my old stories about myself just snapped.

He offers his hand. I take it, letting him steady me.

"Ready?" he asks.

I nod. We leave the boardroom, and for once, I don't linger at my office door. I walk straight past and into the elevator.

Inside, just us. The doors close.

"What now?" Caleb asks, his voice soft.

"I have no idea. I thought getting my job back would fix everything."

"Did it?"

"I don't think I want to go back. Is that insane?"

"Not even slightly." His hand finds the small of my back, thumb stroking through the fabric. "Want to celebrate? Hide? Scream?"

"Can we just... exist? For like five minutes?"

If I try to make sense of it now, I’ll shatter. So for once, I want nothing. No spin, no strategy, no plan—just the quiet hum of his heartbeat under my cheek.

"We can do whatever you want."

I lean into him, forehead to his shoulder. "I need a second to be nothing. To not have a plan."

He kisses my hair. "Being nothing is underrated."

I laugh, shaky. "You're such a dork."

Better than admitting I might cry.

The elevator opens. He tucks me against his side, leading me through the lobby like we own it. Security averts their eyes—maybe embarrassed, maybe because Caleb looks ready to break fingers.

Outside, in the shadow of Luminous, the city races while I idle for the first time in years.

"I can't believe it's over," I say. "What do I even do now?"

"Victory pancakes?" Caleb shrugs.

I'm on the edge of some kind of breakdown—giddy, weightless, terrifying. I don't want to go home or make decisions. I want to disappear with him. I want to order too many pancakes and eat them with my fingers. I want to hide in his bed forever.

His town car appears. The driver starts to get out but Caleb waves him off, opening my door himself.

"Where to, Mr. Kingsley?" the driver asks once we're settled.

"Murphy's Diner on Lake," Caleb says. "The one with the terrible coffee and excellent pancakes."

"Sir?"

"You heard me."

The driver's confused but pulls into traffic without comment.

Murphy's Diner looks like it hasn't been updated since 1987. Cracked vinyl booths, checkered floors that have seen better decades, and the smell of bacon grease and broken dreams. Perfect.

Our waitress, Dolores, has opinions about everything.

"Irish coffee?" she asks, eyeing my suit. "Rough morning?"

"You have no idea," I tell her.

"Make it two," Caleb adds. "And your biggest stack of pancakes."

"To share?"

"God no," I say. "Two stacks. Extra syrup. Bacon on the side."

Dolores grins. "I like her," she tells Caleb before wandering off.

We sit in comfortable silence until the Irish coffees arrive. The whiskey burn perfect against sweet cream. Something inside me finally unclenches.

"Talk to me," Caleb says quietly, his foot finding mine under the table.

"I don't know where to start."

"Anywhere."

I rub my thumb against the side of my mug. "It was just so strange. Seeing her like that. Maya. I walked in there wanting to bury her. But when I looked at her, it was like she was a kid caught stealing, not someone who destroyed my life."

"She made her choices."

"I know. But I trained her. Saw her potential..." I trail off. "I need to understand why. Really why. Not lawyer spin. The truth." Because if I don’t, she’ll keep living rent-free in my head. Every rumor, every whisper, every doubt I ever had about myself will still have her fingerprints on it.

"You want to talk to her."

"Is that stupid?"

"No." He takes my hand across the sticky table. "It's human."

"Her lawyer won't?—"

"I can arrange it," Caleb says simply.

"How?"

"I know people. If you want to see Maya, I'll make it happen."

"You'd do that?"

"Serena." His thumb strokes my palm. "I'd do anything for you."

The pancakes arrive, drowning in butter and syrup. A plate piled high with bacon gets set in between us. We eat quietly. No champagne. No victory lap. Just two people in a crappy diner, figuring out what's next.

"Thank you for this," I say finally.

"Shitty pancakes?"

"No. For not telling me what to think. What to feel. For just..." I wave vaguely. "Accepting my mess and sitting in it with me."

He grins. "I love your mess. The angry parts, the sad parts, the parts that politely eat bad pancakes."

"These are good pancakes."

"They're average at best."

"Shut up and put more syrup on them." But I'm smiling. "When can you arrange this Maya thing?"

"This afternoon."

"That fast?"

"Always." He raises his Irish coffee. "To answers."

"To syrup," I counter.

"To not having a plan," he adds.

We clink mugs, and I realize this is what victory feels like. Choosing what comes next. Having someone who'll help me get there.

Even if it means visiting my backstabbing protégé in a holding cell.

"OK," I say. "Let's do it. Let's go see Maya."

"After pancakes," he clarifies.

"Obviously. I'm not confronting her on an empty stomach. I have standards."