Mr. Hawthorne cleared his throat. “Trenton, I believe you’ve met Claire Whitaker — though perhaps not in her current capacity.” Trenton chuckled, loosening his tie. “Yeah, she files my wife’s nail appointments or something.” The room went silent. Mr. Hawthorne slid a leather portfolio across the table toward me. “Ms. Whitaker, would you like to introduce yourself to opposing counsel?” I stepped forward and set my folder down with a soft, deliberate click. “Claire Whitaker. Senior associate, Hawthorne and Vance. And as of nine this morning, lead counsel on the Brennan acquisition — the one your firm has been trying to poach for six months.” Trenton’s face drained so fast I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “That’s — that’s not possible. You’re a paralegal.” “I was,” I said. “While you were telling my sister I’d never amount to anything, I was studying in the breakroom. While you were charging her credit cards for your golf club membership, I was paying my own tuition.” I opened the folder. “Funny thing about the Brennan deal — your firm’s preliminary brief has seventeen citation errors. I flagged them last week as a courtesy. Your managing partner never forwarded my email, did he?” Mr. Hawthorne smiled thinly. “We’ll be withdrawing from negotiations with your firm, Mr. Vale. Conflict of competence.” Trenton stood so fast his chair tipped. “Claire — Claire, wait. Your sister, she’s — we’re family —” “My sister called me yesterday,” I said quietly. “She’s leaving you. Turns out the paralegal she kept asking for ‘free legal advice’ finally gave her some.” I picked up my folder and walked to the door. “Oh, and Trenton? The coffee machine’s down the hall. Make yourself useful.” The partners didn’t even wait until he left the building to start laughing.
