More Than Sorry

5: He Suffers Her Wrath

ZACH

"What the fuck was that?" Mike hisses as he stalks into the elevator beside me. Anger surges through him to redden his fat cheeks and the top of his balding head.

I punch the elevator button to go back to our floor. My jaw clenches, but I say nothing.

Mike doesn't let up. "That was a fucking embarrassment. We deliver, Zach. We never ask the client for more time. You, of all people, should know that by now."

There's a certain level of respect owed to the firm's managing partner. Worley isn't a democracy. You don't ask questions. You don't talk back. You do what you're told and get shit done or you'll be thrown out on your ass.

But instead of taking the safe route and avoiding Mike's death glare, I look down at him, meeting his gaze head-on. Maybe it's because I haven't slept in two days, or maybe it's because my nerves are wound so tight about Eden leaving, but I won't stay silent. Not this time.

"Mike, I told you last week my team needed more time. We're behind on other settlements, and they have to take priority. We could get on top of it if we hired a couple more paralegals. You need to understand—"

"No," Mike seethes. "You need to understand that this firm is built around profit margins. You're not getting any more paralegals."

"My whole team is burnt out—"

"Everyone knows what they sign up for working here. You want the Worley name on your business card, you fucking earn it."

"I've earned it." The words are bitter. I've more than earned my place. I put this job before everything—even my own family. "I'm the highest fee earner for a reason."

Mike sneers a smile at me. "Zach, your spot at the big boy's table isn't guaranteed. Pull shit like you just did in there again and I'll make sure the other partners know just how disposable you are." His lip curls. "We don't need a repeat of three years ago, do we?"

When the elevator stops, Mike storms out the doors without another word.

Yeah, goodbye to you too, dickhead.

I shake my head and turn down the corridor to my office. I ignore the waves from colleagues like I'm in a hurry.

When I turn the corner, I pretend I don't see the blonde ponytail and the pink-lipped smile beaming in my direction. Michaela. I don't want to see her today. Or ever. I just want to get to my desk and shut out the whole world.

Too late. Michaela's seen me. She snatches an oversized red folder from one of the paralegals and charges down the corridor after me.

"Hey." Michaela struggles to keep up beside me because I'm not slowing down. "We should catch up about the settlement for the commercial building on York Street." She cranes her neck so her lips are closer to my ear. "And you should explain why you didn't respond to my photo."

"I don't want any of your photos."

"But you used to love my photos." Michaela's smile is sweet, but there's a sharp edge to her voice. "Didn't you, Zachy?"

My eyes narrow. "No Zachy. You can either call me Zach or Mr. Rawles."

Michaela trills out a breathy laugh. "I'll call you Mr. Rawles if you promise to bend me over your desk—"

I stop dead in the corridor. Two steps, and I'm standing over her and blocking her path. She's not scared. Her blues eyes flash with excitement. She always loved the games.

"Think about where you are. Act like a professional." The chill in my voice can't leave any doubt about where we stand. "We're over. You ended whatever the fuck we were a year ago, remember?"