Chapter 6 The Tasting Room
She turned back to the data. “Let’s fix your lawsuits before you say something that makes me throw this glass.”
He smiled. “See? Teamwork already.”
She rolled her eyes, a gesture of obvious exasperation. “So, I untangle a corporate mess for you, and now you want me on your legal team? I have a Stanford degree, not a law license.”
As they walked towards the elevator, he said, “You listen better than most lawyers I know. That’s rarer.”
“Flattery’s cheap,” she muttered.
“Maybe,” he said, voice low, “but it’s accurate.”
The doors slid shut with a subdued hiss. The mirrored wall captured their reflections.
She glanced at her watch. 4:07 p.m.
Damn. The Glory Fair Magazine cocktail party. Where gossip came chilled and compliments came barbed.
Perfect. No date.
Ricardo would’ve been ideal if he weren’t currently headlining her “Ex-Fiancé Scandal” montage.
Her gaze drifted toward Cole.
Would bringing him be unethical? Probably.
Would Ricardo and all the fashionable vultures be ecstatic? Yes, definitely.
She turned to him. “Do you own a non-lawyer suit?”
He raised an eyebrow. “Define non-lawyer.”
“Something that doesn’t need cufflinks. Something like, ‘I drink because it’s fun, not because I have to’.”
“You’re inviting me to a party, Maritza?” His tone was soft enough to be dangerous.
“This invite is from my family,” she said sharply. “This isn’t a party. Just show up, act normal, have some champagne, and get out before the speeches start.
He smiled. “Sounds delightful.”
“It’s hell in high heels.”
“So why go?”
“Because they still spell my family’s name right on the banners.”
The elevator stopped with a hum. Her voice was cheerful, even though she wasn’t feeling it. You should come. As my—”
“Lawyer?” he offered.
“Bartender,” she countered. “Keep a drink in my hand so I don’t throw one.”
He leaned in so she could smell his salty skin. “You want me to snoop around for you?”
She swallowed. “And here I thought you didn’t do parties.”
“I don’t,” he said, stepping out. “But I’m starting to make exceptions.”
“Fine,” she muttered. “My assistant will text you the place and dress code.”
“Looking forward to it,” he said without looking back.
She pulled out her phone, thumbs flying.
To: George
Send suits to Mr. Harrison’s office. Check HR for sizes. Also dig up everything—everything—on him.
And find me every red dress in existence. Slits mandatory, cleavage flattering.
Mission: Look like I don’t need a lawyer, even if I’m bringing one.
An hour later, the walk-in closet looked like a battlefield. Silk casualties everywhere. George flitted around like a man trying to defuse a bomb with nail scissors.
“The red dress,” Freya said, showing off a crimson dress that was seriously eye-catching. “It doesn’t say ‘I’m sorry.’ It says, ‘I just buried the apology next to your career.’”
“Good,” she said. “Zip it.”
He did, reverently. “Now… what did you find on Harrison?”
“You’re not going to like it,” he warned.
“Try me.”
“It’s like trying to research a ghost who moonlights as Batman.”
She stilled. “Explain.”
HR got the essentials, like Yale and direct deposit, but that was it.” He held up the tablet. Zero history. No social media. No evidence. It’s like his life was washed out.
“And the bar job?”
“The club’s payroll crashed last year. Files gone. And get this—he bartender under another name.”
Freya, halfway through raiding the grape bowl, frowned. “Who the hell is Kevin?”
George sighed. “My cousin. He followed Harrison after work.”
Freya smirked. “So, your entire intel network is one unemployed guy with a smartphone?”
George snapped his fingers. “Exactly. Resourceful and cheap.”
“Please tell me he got something before security tased him.” Freya muttered.
“He got gold,” George said, triumphant. “Pure, unfiltered weirdness.”
He practically threw the phone at them. Cole’s shirtless in a blurry photo, with one spotlight making neat shadows. It looked like the broken chandeliers were going to fall any second, and he was right in the middle of them.
Freya’s eyes fluttered. “Okay, fine. Points for the view. But why is our Yale lawyer hanging out in a serial-killer?”
“He’s employed there,” George hissed. “Or maybe they live there.”
Maritza’s mouth curved sharply. “Where?” she asked.
“Industrial district. The docks. Kevin bailed when security showed.” George swiped. “But he caught this first.”
Cole again, sleeves rolled, bent over a cracked music box. Focus like a prayer.
Freya squinted. “A music box? Is he auditioning for Beauty and the Beast: The Gritty Reboot?”
George threw up his hands. “Alias, no trail, warehouse monk. Who is this guy?”
“He’s trouble,” Freya said. “The perfectly rehearsed kind.”
Maritza grabbed her clutch, ready to leave, then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number. One message.
Leave the red dress in the closet. It’s not your color. —C
Freya’s voice was sober for once. “Please tell me that’s Kevin being dramatic.”
Maritza’s pulse jumped, then jumped again, watching the screen. The mirror showed her smile: cool, dangerous, and scheming.
“Change of plans,” she declared softly. “Looks like Quality Control works both ways.”
She adjusted the neckline, gave her reflection one final glance, then smirked. “I need my boobs to look great.”
Freya’s voice cracked through the room, sharp as glass. “Are you seriously trying to get his attention? People died, Maritza.”
Maritza froze mid–lip gloss swipe. The mirror caught the flash of guilt she didn’t want to feel. “I’m not dressing for him,” she said, too fast. “I’m dressing for …. good causes. ”
Freya crossed her arms. “Really? That’s your word for vengeance now?”
“It’s my word for survival.” She capped the gloss and met her friend’s reflection. “You think I’m going to show up looking like grief chewed me up? No. I show up like I still own the room. That’s how the De Leóns do penance expensively.”
Freya’s expression softened, but only a little. “You can’t keep pretending the fire didn’t burn you.”
Maritza gave her best friend a brittle laugh. “Pretending is the only thing keeping me upright.”
Freya sighed and tossed her a pair of earrings. “Fine. But if you’re going to war in that dress, at least win something besides scandal.”
Maritza slid the earrings in, chin high. “Winning’s the only thing left.”
