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Chapter One

Tahlia

June 3rd

T he weight of my law books strains my arms as I trudge from the parking garage toward my condo building.

Nashville's evening energy pulses around me—honking horns, music drifting from nearby bars, the excited chatter of fans decked out in Tennessee Terrors Baseball gear heading to tonight's game.

I nod at Mr.

Jenkins, our doorman, as he holds open the gleaming glass door.

"Evening, Miss Carter. Big game tonight!"

"So I've heard," I reply with a wry smile. Sports have never been my thing. My dad, is your traditional sports enthusiast right along with my mom and sister. I would normally watch or attend in person if it was a family function. It’s not that I don’t like them, they’re just not for me.

Inside the polished marble and softly lit lobby, I make a beeline for the elevators, dodging excited fans streaming out.

"Tahlia! You coming to the game?" calls my neighbor Sarah as she exits the elevator I'm entering. Her husband Tom is right behind her, both clad in team jerseys.

"Not tonight," I say, shifting my heavy load. "Got a hot date with some case law."

Sarah laughs. "Girl! You need to live a little."

I force a smile as the doors start to close. "I’ll catch you next time."

The elevator whisks me up to the 14th floor. I wrestle my key from my pocket as the doors slide open. My arms ache as I fumble the key into the lock. Inside, I dump the books onto my dining table with a satisfying thud .

“Whew,” I say, dumping my clothes for my pjs and socks, and prepare for a long night of studying.

Time to get to work.

I arrange my fortress of knowledge around my sleek desk—constitutional law to the left, torts to the right, civil procedure front and center. My laptop casts a cool glow as I pull up my meticulously crafted study schedule. I take my snacks from the pantry, water from the fridge, and grab my noise-canceling headphones from my bag and put on some soft R it's about proving I have what it takes to make a real difference in people's lives.

The soft glow of my desk lamp casts long shadows across the room a stark contrast to the quiet intensity of my study space. I roll my shoulders, feeling the built-up tension. I reach for my well-worn textbook, its pages bristling with color-coded sticky notes. The familiar weight of it in my hands is comforting. When I flip to the chapter on negligence, my eyes scan the dense text, picking out key phrases. "Duty of care… breach of duty… causation…" I whisper each term, letting them sink in. It's like piecing together a complex puzzle, each concept fitting into the larger picture of justice.

I glance at the clock—11:30 p.m. I take a sip of my now-warm juice, grimacing at the bitter taste.

"Maybe Lauren's right about one thing," I muse. "I could use real food."

I heat up some leftover pizza bites and settle back into my chair, hoping to release the hunger. My fingers hover over the keyboard, ready to dive back into my notes on negligence, when I hear it. A faint thump . Then another. This is the third night there’s been some sort of noise coming from next door.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The bass line seeps through the wall, a subtle intrusion that sets my teeth on edge. I try to ignore it, focusing on the screen in front of me.

"Negligence requires four elements," I mutter, typing furiously. "Duty, breach, causation, and…"

Thump. Thump. THUMP .

The music grows louder, and I feel my brow furrowing. "You've got to be kidding me," I whisper, glancing at the wall separating my condo from my neighbor's.

I take a deep breath, attempting to regain my focus. "Come on, Tahlia. You've studied through worse. Remember that frat party during finals week?"

But as I try to immerse myself in tort law again, the noise escalates. Laughter bursts through the wall, followed by the clinking of glasses and indistinct chatter. It's as if someone's throwing a party in my living room.

My jaw clenches. I've always prided myself on my ability to concentrate, to block out distractions.

It's what got me through undergrad and law school. But tonight, it feels like my focus is slipping through my fingers like sand.

"Okay, think," I mutter, drumming my fingers on the desk. "You could put on your headphones, but then you'd miss your alarm if you doze off. You could go to a coffee shop, but it's late and you'd waste time packing up and traveling."

The music swells, and I swear I can feel the bass vibrating through my chair. A burst of raucous laughter follows, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to center myself.

"This is ridiculous," I growl, my frustration mounting. "Don't they know people have important things to do? Not everyone can afford to party on a weeknight."

I glance at my phone, considering calling building management. But it's after hours, and I know from experience they're not quick to respond. Besides, a small voice in my head reminds me, you don't want to be that neighbor.

The one always complaining, always causing trouble.

But as the party next door shows no signs of slowing down, I feel my carefully constructed study schedule crumbling.

Each laugh, each thump, chips away at my concentration.

"Maybe if I just take a quick break," I reason, standing up.

"Clear my head, come back fresh. They can't keep this up all night, right?"

But even as I say it, I know I'm kidding myself. The night is young, and from the sounds of it, my neighbors are just getting started. I pace the length of my living room, torn between my innate desire to avoid conflict and my desperate need for quiet.

"What would Dad say?" I muse, thinking of his calm, measured approach to problems. Then I laugh, shaking my head. "He'd probably say to go over there and join the party."

The thought of abandoning my studies to socialize sends a spike of anxiety through me. No, that's not an option. I have a plan, a schedule, a goal. I can't let one noisy night derail everything I've worked for.

I reach for my noise-canceling headphones, a lifeline in this sea of distraction. I slip them over my ears, the world narrows to just me and my books. The thumping bass fades to a dull vibration, barely noticeable now.

"That’s better" I mutter to myself.

I open my textbook on tort law, the familiar weight of it grounding me. My fingers trace the edge of the page, searching for where I left off. The words swim before my eyes for a moment before coming into focus.

Comparative negligence. Strict liability. Duty of care.

I repeat these terms in my head, willing them to stick. My pen moves across my notepad, jotting down key points, then adding them to my quiz document on my laptop.

A burst of loud laughter penetrates my headphones and I feel my jaw clench. I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is just another obstacle to overcome. I've faced worse. Much worse.

I dive back into my studies with renewed vigor. The words on the page begin to flow more now, each concept linking to the next in a logical chain. I feel the familiar rush of understanding, the pieces clicking into place.

This is why I do this. This is why I push so hard. Because when it all comes together, when I can see the bigger picture of how the law works to protect and serve, it's worth every late night and missed party.

The noise from next door fades into the background as I lose myself in the intricacies of tort law. I'm in my element now, my mind sharp and focused.

Hours pass, marked only by the steadily growing pile of notes beside me and the gradual quieting of the party next door. When I look up, stretching my stiff neck, I realize it's well past two in the morning.

I smile to myself, a small victory achieved. Despite the obstacles, I've stuck to my plan. I've put in the work. And tomorrow, I'll do it all over again.