“Champagne, Ma’am?” asked a well-dressed server with a tray of glasses.

  Clara quickly put her phone away. Ugh, I hope nobody saw it. She plucked a glass gracefully, thanks to having attended far too many of these corporate functions. “Thanks.”

  She scanned the crowd of Caine, Polis & Smith’s Singapore associates, which was mixed with the London and Shanghai crew they’d flown in. It was probably too much to expect privacy in a celebration like this one, held atop Singapore’s famous Marina Bay Sands.

  Her fingers itched. She really wanted to take her phone and go back to reading the latest chapter of ‘The Wicked Lady’s Redemption Arc’. I can’t believe the author updated it on New Year’s Eve. Way to ruin any chance of me enjoying this party. She’d been following the story religiously for three months, and it had just reached its climax: the villainess, accused of hiring an assassin to attack the heroine, was to be put on trial.

  But Clara was at a party. One celebrating the success of her deal. She should probably… socialize? Network? Partake in the song and dance successful associates were meant to do at these things. Perhaps one successful enough to be promoted to Senior Counsel, if the rumors were true.

  She took a sip of the champagne and held back a frown—she didn’t like to drink much, especially not during celebrations, but she didn’t want to stand out by not indulging at all. Even after all these years, Clara couldn’t really tell the difference between cheap sparkling wine and fancy champagne—other than a very angry group of French farmers who lobbied for a geographical trademark, of course. But given the occasion, she could make an educated guess that the contents of the tray probably cost more than her first apartment’s rent.

  She retreated into an out of the way corner, far from the mass of socializing corporate attorneys. Even at a party, she could really tell her colleagues never stopped being lawyers. The way they stood straight and proud, the way they sipped their champagne glasses as if tasting an exquisite delicacy, the way they tried to discreetly one-up each other in conversation… Clara had gotten more than used to this, yet it still didn’t come naturally.

  Fortunately, it didn’t seem anyone was going to come talk to her. Okay, this should be good enough.

  She reopened the chapter.

  A few paragraphs in, she nearly threw the phone into the infinity pool.

  The judge banged his gavel and declared that Lady Cordelia would be tried by combat, as was tradition in the Kingdom!

  “Are you kidding me?” Clara muttered. “You spent twenty chapters building up to this courtroom drama and now it’s trial by combat? That’s not—that doesn’t even—”

  “Talking to yourself again, Casewell?”

  Clara didn’t need to look up to know who’d invaded her personal space. That blend of expensive cologne and impeccable self-assurance could only belong to one person.

  Warren Righton stood in front of her, holding his champagne and staring into the distance as if he were posing for a magazine spread. Which, knowing Warren, he might actually be doing. The man had a sixth sense for when cameras were nearby, which was one possible explanation for why his blond hair was always neatly combed and his three-piece suit was always perfectly creaseless. The other possibility was, of course, that he was an arrogant prick.

  “I’m talking to my phone,” Clara corrected, as if that were much better. “I heard you closed your deal in Tokyo. Funny that we’re all here in Singapore celebrating mine instead.”

  “Ouch.” Warren pressed a hand to his chest in mock pain. “And here I came over to extend a hand in friendship, a New Year’s truce, and congratulate you. I’m wounded, Casewell. Truly.”

  “You’ll survive, Righton. You always do, somehow.”

  “True.” He had a lopsided grin on his face—the kind that had probably gotten him out of trouble since birth. She hated that it almost worked on her. “Seriously, though, Casewell. Nice work. I didn’t think you were going to close this quarter.”

  Clara studied him suspiciously. “What do you want?”

  “Can’t I just congratulate a colleague?”

  “You? No.”

  “Fair enough.” He chuckled. “I heard from the grapevine that Lewiston is making the Senior Counsel announcement tonight. Thought you’d want to know.”

  Clara’s stomach dropped. She’d been competing for that position for years—against Warren, specifically. They’d been hired the same week, interning during their last year of college, climbed the ladder at the same breakneck pace, and had been neck-and-neck ever since. The Singapore deal had been her Hail Mary, the case that she hoped would push her over the edge.

  But Warren had closed the Tokyo merger last month. And Warren had connections—old money, the right schools, the kind of network that came from generations of Rightons doing Important Things?. Even if his billables weren’t as high as hers, he brought in clients at the same pace a partner would.

  “And you came to gloat?” she asked.

  “Actually, I came to offer you the chance to toast when they announce my name.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You seem very confident. I wouldn’t be if I were you.” She heard that even Daniel Caine was impressed with her deal, and that fossil wasn’t impressed by anything other than his own name.

  But before Warren could respond, the sound of a microphone tapping echoed across the rooftop. Paula Lewiston, the managing partner, stood on the small stage area, looking distinguished in that respectable way only senior partners could.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention…”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Clara’s heart rate kicked up. Warren raised his champagne glass slightly in her direction and mouthed a silent ‘cheers’. She glared back at him.

  “First, I want to wish everyone a Happy New Year’s Eve. Let’s take this moment to thank everyone who worked on the Horizon closing,” Lewiston began. “It was a masterclass in cross-border M&A, and it’s exactly the kind of work that makes clients keep coming back to Caine, Polis & Smith.”

  Polite applause ensued, which Clara barely heard over the ringing in her ears. She wanted the promotion more than anything, and she’d worked her ass off for it, sacrificing what could’ve been the best years of her life. Yet at the same time… Something tightened inside her. She didn’t do well with accomplishments.

  “Which is why it gives me great pleasure to announce our newest Senior Counsel, the first promotion of 2026…” Lewiston paused for effect, the sadist. “The lead associate on this deal, Miss Clara Casewell.”

  The applause was louder this time. Clara ought to have jumped for joy—she’d done it. All her hard work paid off, and now she—not Warren—was the first Senior Counsel under thirty years old in the firm’s history. But inside her, the dread crept in.

  She made herself smile; she couldn’t afford to show her insecurity here. Pushing her intrusive thoughts away, Clara decided to quickly thank Lewiston and the other partners, then make herself scarce.

  Warren, for his part, looked impassive, almost pristine. He nodded at her, then raised his glass and called out, “Speech! Speech! Speech!” Unfortunately, his cries caught on, and the cheers spread through her colleagues like a wave.

  That bastard.

  Trapped, Clara made her way to the stage on autopilot, accepted the handshake from Lewiston, and took the microphone. She’d make this quick.

  “Thank you,” she said, keeping her voice steady and professional. “I’m honored by this recognition and grateful to everyone who supported me on this journey. It hasn’t been easy for us on the deal team, jumping around London and Shanghai and Singapore for all these months, and I’m proud to work with such dedicated and talented colleagues. Here’s to many more successful closings in the future.”

  Clean, professional, and most importantly, short. She handed the microphone back to Lewiston, exchanged superficial pleasantries with some of the other partners, and escaped before anyone could trap her in small talk. She didn’t want to stay here any longer than she absolutely had to.

  Warren intercepted her before the elevator doors closed.

  “Congratulations. I hate to say it, but well played,” he said, sticking his arm inside.

  She raised an eyebrow. “You’re taking this very well.”

  “Who says I’m taking it well?” Yet even as he said that, he was smiling. “I’m just professional enough not to make a scene. I’ll save my devastating spiral for the privacy of my own home, thank you very much. Plus, we’re not done yet—I’ll still make partner before you. This is just a temporary setback.”

  “Very admirable of you, Righton. In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Running away from your own party?” he asked, unwilling to let her go so easily. “That’s very on-brand for you. It’s the new year, Casewell. You’ve just made Senior Counsel. You’re supposed to celebrate.”

  Clara looked at the party behind him—the laughter, the champagne, the occasional firework painting the sky in preparation for the new year. Everyone looked so happy. So carefree.

  Yet her thoughts were trapped in another celebration, another time.

  Her parents’ smiles rose in her mind, warm and full of pride. The acceptance letter to the University of Leuven’s prestigious law program lay crinkled across the restaurant table, already handled too many times. They had kept smiling as they pressed the glass into her hands, insisting she drink even though she was barely eighteen, telling her to let herself be happy. ‘You deserve this’, they’d said, though she barely remembered what they sounded like.

  That was nine years ago, but she still remembered the taste of the champagne like it was yesterday—how sharp it was, how it lingered at the back of her throat. It was similar to the one she’d drunk tonight, but also worlds apart. And she remembered the shouting. The screeching of car tires. The smell of metal in the air as the other car rammed into their taxi. And the sudden stillness that followed.

  Clara had learned then that success came with a price. That when life gave her something, it also took something away. So what price would she end up paying for this promotion?

  “You know we have an early flight,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. The firm was flying them to the main office in Boston for some ceremonial nonsense, since they’d both closed key deals in the past quarter. “I need to pack. Don’t you?”

  Warren studied her with those too-perceptive eyes. For a moment, she thought he might push. But then he just nodded.

  “Fair enough. Happy New Year, Senior Counsel Casewell.” He raised his glass one more time before stepping out of the elevator. “Try not to be too insufferable about the promotion.”

  “I’ll do my best, Associate Righton. Happy New Year.”

  His dry laugh echoed as the elevator doors closed.

  A half-day later, Clara was wedged into a business class seat somewhere over the Indian Ocean, finally allowing herself to relax.

  Singapore Air’s flight from Singapore to New York was nearly nineteen hours—and that didn’t even include the connection to Boston—which meant she had plenty of time to catch up on her interests. Warren’s seat was near hers, but he looked fast asleep and the privacy screen was up, so she was free to do as she pleased. Clara opened her foldable phone, scrolled right past The Wicked Lady’s Redemption Arc—she was still mad about the trial-by-nonsense—and picked a brand-new story that had just been updated, with less than a handful of readers.

  My Fair Villainess: A Maid’s Guide to Social Climbing.

  The premise was ridiculous: a commoner girl becomes the maid to a notorious villainess, Iris von Rhenia, and has to help her avoid her doomed fate. The world-building made no sense—apparently this fantasy kingdom had both medieval feudalism with a powerful church and knights with swords and a Victorian-style constitutional monarchy with steam trains and a burgeoning industry.

  Yet Clara was hooked within three chapters.

  There was something deeply satisfying about stories where the ‘villain’ wasn’t really villainous at all—just someone who’d been labeled that way by a narrative that favored the simpering heroine. Clara had spent enough time in corporate law to know that ‘villain’ was often just another word for ‘someone who didn’t play nice’.

  She was twelve chapters in when the plane hit turbulence.

  Clara was well used to flying—she’d gained more miles than she knew what to do with from all her trips to and from the various Caine, Polis & Smith offices scattered around the globe. So even as the overhead bins rattled and the seatbelt light dinged on, she was more annoyed than worried. Turbulence was just air doing air things.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re experiencing some rough air. Please return to your seats and ensure your seatbelts are fastened.”

  Clara saved her place in the story and closed her phone.

  Then the plane dropped.

  Her stomach lurched into her throat, and she regretted eating all those peanuts before takeoff. The plane quickly readjusted, and Clara let out a deep breath.

  But then it happened again and again, and the plane refused to stop rocking wildly, shattering Clara’s confidence. Someone screamed, and oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling with a plastic thunk that seemed almost comical in these circumstances. She grabbed hers with shaking hands, trying to recall the emergency procedures everybody listens to without really paying attention.

  Place the mask over your nose and mouth. Breathe normally. In the unlikely event of a water landing—

  The plane tilted hard, and Clara gripped her armrests as the cabin lights flickered. Even the flight attendants were strapped in now, faces pale but professional. In the chaos, she could hear crying, praying, even someone hysterically laughing.

  This was it, Clara realized with sobering clarity. She should’ve known not to celebrate.

  But at least she’d made Senior Counsel before Warren.

  Her last thought, as the plane spiraled and everything went dark, was oddly specific: I wish I got to finish that story. It was fun.

  And then—nothing.