This Gala, the firm's annual promotion and raise celebration, is over the top. But who's asking me, right? They usually only want my input on anything remotely related to urban or Black Lives Matter topics, which honestly should just be common sense. As always, they've gone all out.

I mean, gold dust in the margaritas? Really? That's pushing it.

The dress code demanded pure white. "Not cream, not ivory, not off-white," insisted Chantel Wilde, the secretary and Mr. Wilde's daughter, who I swear has the intellectual depth of a puddle—though that might be too kind. Despite my harsh judgment, she's somehow become one of the few people at this firm I can almost call a friend.

But let's be real—I'm not here for friendships. I don't do friendships.

Anyway, back to the gold margaritas and the overpriced decor. I've seen the spreadsheet.

The theme, "Heaven on Earth," is ironic to the max. The gala is being held at an event space that's basically a replica of a palace—gold leaf accents, crystal chandeliers, and all. The whole thing is over the top, but in a way that's meant to convey power and influence, rather than taste.

"Noey!" Chantel squeals, making her way over to my table, her arm flailing in a wave. Her hair, a shade of blonde in the morning, is now a striking platinum, a look only Beyoncé herself could truly rock. Remember her Grammy's outfit?

"Hey, girl," I greet her, managing a small smile as I take another sip from my overly extravagant drink. She's the one person around here with whom I can let my guard down, even if just a bit.

"You look absolutely stunning," she gushes, eyes sparkling. She's donned a dress that screams Chantel, a strapless number with a full skirt, the top embellished with sequins and gems. Her choice of words that makes me wince internally, but her earnestness is endearing.

"Thanks," I reply. "You're looking incredible." Despite my aversion to physical affection, she wraps me in a hug, fully aware of my discomfort but choosing to ignore it for the sake of the moment.

"You think you're going to get promoted this year." Chantel asks.

"I hope, I've been working my ass off."

"True, but you haven't really been putting yourself out there."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, you keep yourself locked in that office of yours."

"Because I'm doing my job."

"Well, I'm just saying, it doesn't hurt to be social every once in a while. You could make connections, maybe even meet someone."

"Yeah, I don't have time for that."

"Hey, Chanty," call out Dalton and Walton, the firm's newest legal eagles, as they saunter over with all the subtlety of a pair of wrecking balls. These two have been trying—and failing—to catch anyone's interest since day one, completely clueless to the art of taking a hint.

Dalton flashes a grin at Chantel, one that's eerily reminiscent of SpongeBob's square and overly enthusiastic face. The guy's been laying it on thick since his arrival, but then, he's hardly the first in this place to shoot his shot and miss by a mile. Even Old Greg, with his questionable wardrobe choices and lingering stares, has been more subtle.

"Dalton," Chantel replies, her voice suddenly losing its fairy-tale quality and dropping a few octaves to a level of barely concealed irritation.

"So, got any plans for the weekend?" Walton jumps in, ever hopeful. "We've got an extra spot at our Dungeons and Dragons table with your name on it."

Chantel's face scrunches up as if she's just smelled something foul. "Sorry, but I'm pretty sure my name isn't 'Not Interested.'"

I can't help but burst out laughing at her comeback. "Damn, girl."

"You know what I meant." she mutters.

"Oh shit, I gotta go mingle. See you around," Chantel gives me another hug, her perfume lingering in the air as she walks away.

For a moment, I let myself relax. My mind drifts back to the events of the past week. I don't need a relationship, or even a partner. I'm a strong, independent woman, and I can make it on my own. But sometimes, a little company wouldn't hurt.

My thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, a smooth baritone that sends a shiver down my spine.

"Hey."

"Oliver. You look sharp," I reply, taking a slow sip of my margarita, enjoying the burn of the tequila.

"Thanks, you look amazing," Oliver says. I feel his eyes roaming over my body. "Really, really amazing. That dress is something."

"Yeah, you look good too. But we both know it's the suit that does it for me," I tease, enjoying the flush that creeps up his neck. Damn this alchol is kicking in.

"I knew you were checking me out," he grins, his eyes crinkling. "You want another one?" he motions towards my drink.

"Sure."

I watch him walk over to the bar, his tall frame moving with a confident ease. Damn. I can't do this tonight. I glance over at Chantel she's talking to some junior partners. She looks happy.

I take another sip of my drink.

Oliver returns with my margarita, his face flushed with the excitement of the night. "Here you go," he hands me the drink, his fingers brushing mine. "So, I gotta tell you something...I-i want to apologize."

"Oliver, stop, we just had a disagreement." I don't want to even think about. Right now it doesn't even matter.

"No, not about that. It's about..."

The room starts to settle as someone taps a microphone at the front, drawing everyone's attention to the stage. "Please, take your seats," comes the announcement, prompting a mix of soft and loud shuffling as the crowd finds their places, a wave of quiet anticipation sweeping through the gala attendees.

I wish I had time to ask Oliver what he was apologizing for, but I don't. I turn to him, his expression unreadable.

"Later," I tell him, as we both head back to our table, where the partners are seated. He nods and gives me a grim look.

All eyes turn to the podium as Mr. Wilde makes his way up, ready to kick off the evening. Known for his rather unfiltered sense of humor that often teeters on the edge of outright offensive, he's the kind of person who believes any publicity is good publicity.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he begins, his voice booming through the room, "welcome to what I'm sure many of you consider the highlight of your mundane, billable-hours-filled lives: the annual firm gala! Now, I know what you're thinking—'Is he going to make another one of his inappropriate jokes?' And to that, I say, 'Would I ever disappoint?' But seriously, let's keep the HR complaints to a minimum tonight, shall we? We're all here to pretend we like each other, so let's at least try to make it convincing."

A mixture of laughter and groans fills the room, a testament to Mr. Wilde's talent for offending half his audience with a single sentence.

"I want to welcome each and every one of you for showing up to what I'm sure is your favorite event of the year. Now, before we dive into the endless speeches and pat ourselves on the back for all the 'hard work' we've done this year, let's take a moment to appreciate the real stars of tonight—those 24k gold-dusted margaritas. Because nothing says 'I'm billing way too much for my time' like drinking precious metals, am I right?"

I roll my eyes, and Oliver winks. He leans close, his voice low. "You think the tequila's been laced with something else?"

"Probably," I snort.

"But in all seriousness, let's not forget what this night is really about—promotion season. The time of the year when the cream of the crop rise above the rest, when those who are truly the best of the best are given the recognition they deserve."

"I'll stop short of saying 'get the raises they deserve,' because, let's be real, most of you are still overpaid, but hey, that's the American dream, right? Anyway, let's hear a round of applause for the lawyers responsible for our continued success, and a special shout-out to my darling daughter Chantel, the true brains behind the operation."

Everyone bursts into applause, Chantel included.

"Anyway, let's get started. Our first speaker is not only my nephew, but don't let his age fool you. In his short time with us, he's proven himself more than worthy of his position. Please give a warm welcome to our New Legal Director Oliver Waterford."

Oliver makes his way to the front, his smile never faltering. I can't help but stare at him.

I should be happy for him. Why am I not happy?