So why did I feel like shit?
“Hollywood is a young man’s game.” Hamilton pressed on, unaware of the sinking feeling in my chest. “We need a fresh face with an inside track and a beautiful woman who supports his aspirations.”
I almost choked. The only beautiful woman I wanted hid under the covers when my brother called.
I avoided Hamilton’s smarmy expression. Houghton assumed I was eyeballing the stack of papers because he slid them across the table. They sipped their bourbon as I flipped through them: Practice group leadership agreement. Los Angeles housing stipend. Business development goals. Sales quota and commission structure. Client signing bonuses.
I had negotiated the biggest mergers in this firm’s history and was one of the best goddamn acquisition lawyers in the state … but this wasn't a job description for an accomplished law partner, it was for a glorified salesperson. They expected me to throw out years of experience to shake hands with actors and producers, because of my fucking ‘in.’
“Where’s the fun part?” I asked casually as I skimmed the job responsibilities and let my arrogance shine through, “Who do I get to yell at?”
“Negotiate the contracts to sign talent. You won’t need a partner’s share of mergers if you’re earning signing bonuses.”
“Los Angeles, not New York? Even though that’s where I last saw my connection?” It killed me to refer to Nick like that, but if that’s how they think of him, I wouldn’t humanize him so they expected vicarious access. They weren’t fit to lick his dorky fucking Converse.
“We’re a California-based company,” Houghton said severely. “Plus you go rogue in New York.”
Great, they were offering me a partnership in name only and a 300-mile leash.
I flipped the contract closed since it was making me nauseous. “Does Victoria’s partnership agreement have this same compensation structure?” These same bullshit sales commissions, I wanted to say.
Hamilton’s brow raised. “What now?”
“Victoria’s partnership agreement,” I repeated slowly. “Is it as heavily weighted to business development?”
The two men exchanged a nervous glance before Hamilton said, “We’ll ensure that Victoria is adequately compensated for her —”
“Oh give it up, Frank,” Houghton interrupted, cheeks reddened from his third bourbon in ten minutes, which may not have been his first of the day. “We know you’re fucking her.”
“Fred —”
“If he’s going to be partner, he’ll have to stop pussyfooting around this.” Houghton stood and pointed an angry finger. “I saw you two at Spencer Burke's wedding, you were clearly a couple. You shared a suite in New York last month and live ‘across the hall’ from each other,” he said with poorly executed air quotes. “She can act all proper up on her high horse, just like her father, but we know —”
Hamilton forcibly pushed his business partner into his chair. “We appreciate your discretion, but you can disclose your relationship. When neither of you came back from New York …” he glanced at the decade-old photo and lifted his hands in a not-apology. “The cat’s out of the bag.”
I wanted to scrape my chair back to make a big production of storming out like she taught me. I wanted to scream that I hadn’t slept with Victoria in over a year, that I’d been with the most wonderful woman on earth, but they didn’t deserve to know her name.
I wanted to tell them to go fuck themselves.
Instead, I calmly tugged on my bottom lip with my thumb and index finger and repeated my original question. If they thought Victoria was mine, I was entitled to ask. “What’s the compensation in her partnership agreement?”
“What agreement?” Houghton yelled in confusion. “When you move to LA, we assume she’ll move with you, is that what you mean? Whether you can take her as an associate on your expansion team?”
Hamilton sighed. “The real estate practice group would struggle, but as long as it doesn’t impact her billable hours, we can let her work from LA if you need a trophy wife.”
A trophy wife? Jesus, not only did I not want to marry Victoria … she’d castrate anyone who expected her to relegate herself to being a trophy wife. She’d moved across the country to escape her family’s expectation of being a pretty face in a ceremonial role.
“Ms. Blackstone is tenacious,” Hamilton said. “Everything we want in an associate, but a partner should be more congenial. A family man who the clients want to take out for a beer.”
Right, the universal test of leadership: ability to drink beer. Add in the unspoken expectation of ‘Lady in the streets, freak in the sheets,’ but in the corporate realm: ‘Shark in the courtroom and a lady in the boardroom.’
I imagined my sister’s reaction to this conversation — red-faced, fists clenched, her tiny body vibrating with righteous indignation — as I said calmly, “Victoria could embody family values, but she put that timeline on hold for this firm.”
Hamilton shifted uncomfortably, “We have observed that after maternity leave, female associates exhibit a decline.”
The air was so full of misogynist bullshit that I almost couldn’t breathe through the stench. “Is that company policy?”
“Of course not,” Hamilton answered too quickly. “The Partnership Committee evaluates each candidate based on their merits, billing hours, client book of business, and commitment to company values. We need to make sure our leadership is the right fit. You understand that our legacy is at stake?”
Oh, I understood. They wanted to hand over their business to other men — Mallory would point out: straight, cisgender, educated white men. A continuation of the old boys’ club, with no room for diversity or innovation. They wanted me to play the role of the ‘family man,’ to marry a trophy wife and hire a nanny to raise the kids, to display their pictures but never attend dance recitals or teach them how to ski. Skiing was for business development, or maybe team building, but not for fun. Never for fun.
God forbid we have any fucking fun.
“I understand completely,” I said calmly. I understood that I was stuck working for these misogynist assholes, kissing my brother’s friends’ asses until I’d made them enough money to get my name on the door.
Then I could advocate for Victoria. Then I could change the rules.
Until then, I was fucked.
I rose from the chair, buttoning my suit jacket. “I’ll speak to my brother.”
“You’re going to be the youngest partner in our firm’s history,” Hamilton said, exuding paternal pride.
Houghton leaned in. “Now that the secret’s out … is it true what they say about redheads?”
I cleared my throat. “What is it they say exactly?”
Thankfully Hamilton changed the subject. “How did you manage to keep your brother a secret? Unless …” his eyes widened like he’d just had a terrible thought, which absolutely should have occurred before pitching this promotion.
