Page 41 of Dial L for Lawyer (Curves & Capital #2)

Serena

T he county jail smells like bleach trying to cover up despair. Everything looks exhausted—the floors, the walls, even the guard who leads me through security. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead like angry wasps.

"Fifteen minutes," she says. "That's all you get."

"That's all I need."

Maya's in an interview room that's either too hot or I'm sweating from nerves. Orange jumpsuit hanging loose on her frame. No makeup. Her usually perfect hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. Chipped nails. Shadows under her eyes like bruises.

She looks younger. Defeated. Real.

"Your lawyer pulled strings," she says without looking up. "Must be nice."

"Maya—"

"Don't." She finally meets my eyes. "Just... don't do the sympathetic mentor thing. I can't handle it."

I sit across from her at the metal table. The chair scrapes against concrete. "OK. Then you talk."

"Why should I tell you anything?" Her jaw tightens. "So you can feel better about winning?"

"I didn't win. We both lost."

That stops her. "You got your job back."

"They offered me VP, actually."

Maya flinches like I slapped her. Then she laughs—harsh sounds that bounce off the walls.

"Of course they did. Do you have any idea what it's like working for someone who never makes mistakes? Perfect Serena Morgan. It’s exhausting just being near you."

"Perfect?" I lean forward. "You want to know what perfect looks like? Throwing up before board presentations. Xanax for panic attacks. Crying in bathroom stalls."

"Bullshit."

"I'm serious. Three anxiety medications. Therapy twice a week when I can fit it in. Stress acne I cover with concealer so thick it could spackle walls."

Maya stares at me like I'm speaking another language.

"You know why I stayed late all those nights?" I continue. "Not dedication. Fear. Terror that if I left anything unfinished, everyone would realize I didn't deserve to be there."

"But you never let it show."

"I'm a good actress, apparently. My shapewear alone deserves an Oscar. Heavy-duty, every single day. I literally cannot bend at the waist in what I'm wearing right now."

"That's..." Maya starts laughing. Different this time. "That's insane."

"I know."

"Three years I worked for you," she says, sobering. "Not once did I see you fail at anything."

"You never saw me try to parallel park. Or use Excel. Or eat soup without spilling on my shirt."

Maya almost smiles. "You can't use Excel?"

"I fake it. Google everything. My formulas are held together with prayer."

"But your presentations?—"

"Practiced until 3 AM. Every single one. In my bathroom mirror, to the stray cat on my fire escape, to my dying plants."

"Your clothes never wrinkle."

"Steamer in my office. Backup outfit on the back of my door. Safety pins in case a button gives way."

"You never missed a deadline."

"Because I was too terrified of what would happen if I did."

Maya's crying now, angry tears she doesn't bother wiping. "Do you have any idea what it's like working for someone you think never struggles? Never doubts? I'd come in every day and see Perfect Serena, and I'd feel like such a failure."

"I was scared of you," I admit.

Her tears stop. "What?"

"Terrified. You picked things up so fast. Your ideas were fresh. You had this energy I'd lost somewhere along the way." I meet her eyes. "I was convinced you'd realize you were better than me and leave me behind."

"You were scared of me?"

"Every day. That's why I worked even harder. To stay ahead of you."

Silence stretches between us. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams.

"I started hating you," Maya says finally. "Not at first. At first, I worshipped you. But slowly, worship turned to resentment. Then anger. Then..." She gestures at her orange jumpsuit.

"All because you thought I was perfect?"

"It wasn't supposed to go this far. Victoria at Radiance kept pushing, kept saying I deserved recognition. That I was special." Her voice cracks. "I wanted to believe her. I wanted to be more than just another assistant."

"You were never just an assistant."

"But I felt like one. Next to you, I felt small. Ordinary. Forgettable."

"Maya—"

"The worst part?" She interrupts. "Sometimes I'd catch you when you thought no one was looking. Slumped at your desk. Staring at nothing in the elevator. But I ignored it because it was easier to hate the perfect version."

"We're all fighting battles no one sees."

"Yours were just hidden better." She wipes her face roughly. "God, we're both such idiots. You, for thinking you had to be perfect. Me, for believing you were."

"What a pair we make."

"Made," she corrects. "Past tense. I ruined everything."

I want to disagree, but she's right. Some things can't be undone. She's looking at serious jail time—two to five years if she takes the plea deal, David said. More if she fights it and loses.

"For what it's worth," I say, standing to leave, "you would have been brilliant. On your own merit. Without trying to be me."

"Can I ask you something?"

“Of course,” I turn back.

“The guy. Your lawyer. How’d you get him to represent you on this? I looked up his firm and those fees are astronomical. I ended up hiring a guy who smells like old coffee and disappointment." A dry, humorless laugh escapes her. "How did you get the best lawyer in the city?"

I hesitate. How do I explain Caleb? That he saw me, wanted me, and used my desperation as an excuse to get close? That our arrangement is a mess of ethics and emotion?

"We have history. It's complicated," I say, the words feeling thin and inadequate.

"Right." A flicker of the old resentment crosses her face. "So you’re sleeping with him."

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to,” she says, her voice flat, dead. “It’s the only explanation. It’s always the explanation for women like you. The ones who get everything.”

The insult lands with a dull thud. Not because it hurts, but because it’s so profoundly, stupidly wrong. She sees a transaction, a shortcut. She doesn’t see the terror, the surrender, the man who held me together when I was falling apart.

“Women like me?” I push my chair back, the legs screaming against the concrete. “You have no idea who I am, Maya. You never did.”

The guard appears at the door. “Time.”

I don’t look back as I walk out. There’s nothing left to say. We were never rivals. We were just two women staring at a funhouse mirror, hating a distorted version of the other while our own reflections were cracking behind us.

Caleb's waiting in the lobby, and I collapse against him the moment I see him. He smells like safety and expensive cologne and home.

"How was it?"

"Awful. Necessary. Eye-opening." I pull back to look at him. "She thought I was perfect."

"You are perfect."

"No, I mean... she thought I never struggled. Never doubted. Never failed." I laugh, but it sounds hysterical. "She destroyed both our lives because she couldn't live up to something that didn't even exist."

"Come on," he says, leading me outside. "Let's go home."

"Yours?"

"Ours," he says simply. "If you want."

I think about Maya, trying to copy an illusion. About all the years I've spent hating my body, my anxiety, my imperfections. About how exhausting it's been maintaining a facade that drove someone to destruction.

"You know what?" I say. "Yes. Ours sounds perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I'm done pretending to be perfect. You're getting the real me. Anxiety, shapewear meltdowns, and all."

"That's all I've ever wanted," he says, kissing my forehead.

As we drive away from the jail, I realize something has shifted. The weight I've been carrying—the need to be flawless, untouchable, beyond reproach—it's gone.

Maya’s cell has bars. Mine was made of expectations. We both lost years to cages that didn’t have to exist. The difference is, I’m finally walking out of mine.