The victory dinner was in full swing, and the restaurant glowed in amber light—the kind that made polished wood gleam and wine glasses sparkle as though the night had been dipped in honey.
Long tables sagged under the weight of platters—crispy fried seafood, marinated meats glistening with oil, bowls of spiced nuts, pig's trotters cooked with soy sauce and spices, chicken feet, fish cake, clam soup, fried chicken wings and laps, and pepper soup. The scent was intoxicating—a warm, peppery embrace mingled with sharper, fresher notes of herbs and the fruity tang of expensive liquor being splashed into shot glasses without restraint.
Laughter ricocheted around the high-ceilinged room, loud, unfiltered, like coins thrown carelessly against tiled walls. The law firm's partners sprawled in bespoke suits, ties dangling, jackets slung over chair backs, faces flushed with satisfaction. They had wrestled one of the largest corporate lawsuits in recent years to the ground and won, and now it showed. Waiters glided between tables, balancing trays heavy with bottles; the constant clink of glass punctuated the air.
I sat at the far right of the long mahogany table, pressed against the wall. The corner was reserved for the "upper ring"—senior partners, veteran barristers, and two retired judges who still liked to hover around the scent of victory.
My boss had waved me in with the easy assumption I'd feel honored. In truth, my own designated seat—farther down, among younger associates—had been taken by some overeager intern who'd slipped in early. To avoid lingering awkwardly in the middle of a crowded aisle, I'd accepted the pull toward the prestigious corner.
I regretted it almost instantly.
My glass of sparkling water sat untouched. A bottle of Scotch, sweating in its ice bucket, dominated the center like a prized trophy. All around me, glasses were being raised, refilled, emptied. My victory—the brutal, methodical dismantling of the opposition's financial oversight clause—had been praised, then promptly forgotten. A single thread in the larger tapestry they were now celebrating. I forced a smile anyway.
The conversation, fueled by alcohol and arrogance, meandered from the case to golf, from golf to investments, and then, inevitably, to the casual dissection of personal lives.
"…and then the little missus tells me I'm working too much!" boomed Richard Cobb, a senior partner known for his bullish courtroom style and his three ex-wives. "I said, 'Darling, this,'" he gestured grandly to the table, the champagne, the very air of exclusivity, "'is why you have that absurdly large conservatory!'"
Polite, sycophantic laughter rippled around the table. I laughed too, quietly in my head—a silent huff of air, my lips curved into a shape that felt foreign on my face.
Bremmer clapped Cobb on the shoulder. "You have to train them early, Richard. Like a thoroughbred." His eyes scanned the table, a king surveying his court, and then landed on me. The gaze felt like a spotlight. "Speaking of, Ivelle. We're all celebrating professional milestones. But what about the personal ones? You're pushing thirty-three, aren't you?" His voice was loud enough to rope in half the table's attention.
I nodded once. Polite, noncommittal.
"You know," he continued, "at thirty-three, most women at least have a ship with a dog"—he chortled—"talk less of an actual relationship."
The table erupted in laughter, rich and overlapping. Someone clinked their glass against the edge of my water, a mock toast.
"Careful," another voice sang from further down—a woman in an immaculately tailored skirt suit. "She might still surprise us. Maybe she'll be remarried before the year ends."
I smiled, my mouth curving because that was expected—but inside, something cold began to crystallize.
The cracks in my politeness deepened when a retired judge cleared his throat and asked, "So when do you plan to get remarried? You've been single quite a while now. You've only had one man your whole life, yet you are left all alone. A career like yours is admirable, but life isn't only about the courtroom. A woman needs… balance."
The voices blurred, as if underwater. I heard them, but they no longer felt tethered to the air around me. The same hollowed-out sensation I'd felt during my marriage—the dissonance, the turning inward—slid over me like a steel sheet.
My laughter felt like a foreign object in my throat, a choked, unconvincing sound. They saw me as a puzzle with a missing piece, a beautiful, accomplished woman whose only failing was my solitary status. The irony was so thick, so pungent, it almost made me gag. Butcher them, a dark, nascent thought hissed in the back of my mind, with their narcissistic selves.
The fantasy was delicious. And dangerous.
Another senior partner, lean and fox-eyed, tilted his head toward me. "Really, though," he drawled, "why not enjoy yourself more? You could warm someone's bed once in a while. You're a divorcee now, no need to be so… austere. Time's ticking, you know. You don't want to hit menopause before you even consider it." His gaze lingered where it shouldn't. "We've got warmth to spare once you need it."
I froze. My fingers stilled over my napkin.
Shut up. Just shut up. I put away violent criminals for a living, and here you are, turning me into one.
The edge of the linen felt rough against my skin, scratchier than it should. I didn't move.
A female barrister with hair the shade of bleached straw leaned in, eyes glittering with faux camaraderie. "Maybe she's planning to take vows," she said, grinning. "We'll have to start calling her Sister Ivelle."
The laughter rose again.
oh lord, I can't get angry in front of the boss's or else my work life would be over. I took a deep, silent breath, forcing the storm within to recede. My jaw clenched, the shift almost imperceptible beneath the cool facade I'd mastered over the years. I couldn't afford to unleash it now, not with so many eyes pinned on me.
Bremmer cleared his throat, sensing perhaps a shift in atmosphere, though utterly oblivious to the silent inferno raging inside me. He picked up a bottle of clear spirit, its label unknown to me, and held it over my shot glass. "Come on, Ivelle," he said, forced bonhomie in his voice, "let me pour you a proper shot. Prove you're not angry at us, eh? Just a bit of fun."
Drink, or I'm a humorless spinster.
Drink, or I'm holding a grudge.
Drink, or I'm not one of them.
I stared at the glass. Coercion, thinly veiled as camaraderie, was still coercion. And I hated them all for it.