Nausea was a bitch that wouldn't quit, twisting Priya's tequila-pickled stomach into a mess of nerves. The elevator rocketed up to the thirty-seventh floor, and she raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a booze-soaked burp as the urge to let it all spew out sat at the back of her throat like a finger hovering over the button of a detonator.

Waiting to be pushed.

Oh please, let me get through this nightmare without puking.

The doors pinged open when she reached her floor—so high up she'd swear the building swayed under her feet. Bright lights bounced off white walls, floors, and furniture. Stark as an art gallery without a hint of color or contrast aside from the polished wood receptionist desk and the impeccably dressed young Black woman manning it.

On a Sunday . . . ?

Wincing against the glare, Priya approached the desk, and the receptionist lifted a single halting finger in acknowledgment as her other hand raced across the keyboard. When she was finished typing, she shifted her gaze to Priya, and, to her credit, barely blinked.

"You must be Ms. Seth." A welcoming smile brightened her luminous skin. "I'll let Ms. Nagao's assistant know you're here." Her fingers flew once more over the keyboard but stalled when her eyes landed on Priya again. "Something wrong?"

"I'm just . . . confused," Priya whispered, like a sinner afraid to be caught in church. "It's Sunday."

"Defense doesn't rest," the receptionist intoned. "More than just our company motto. Marek, Nagao & Silver has a vast, rotational staff to ensure the office can remain open and operational through weekends and holidays, when needed." She removed the headset from her ear. "Heather will be with you shortly. Is there anything I can get for you in the meantime? Water? Cappuccino?"

Spare panties? The weight of dread—and impending vomit—kicked Priya's tonsils, and she did her best to swallow it all back down. "Water would be great."

"Still or sparkling?"

"Sparkling."

"Wonderful. Ice?"

"Sure."

"And would you like a slice of lemon or lime?"

Seriously? "Just the water, please. Thanks."

"Certainly. I'll just be a moment." She was gone in a flash of long legs, high heels, and a soft gray suit that Priya was debating how to bribe her out of when the glass doors beyond the desk opened and a stern, red-lipped blond strode out, looking as sleek as a model.

Brown eyes fell on Priya, and her stride faltered, like she'd skidded on wet flooring, before recovering. Barely. "Ms. Seth?"

"That's me." Priya extended a hand. "You must be Heather."

"Are you insane? What on earth possessed you to waltz in here like—?" Heather's gaze raked her from head to toe, scathing with judgment. "No. No. No. I can't accept this." She flapped her hand and set the other to her brow, eyes pinched shut. "Turn around and leave this instant—before someone else sees you. I'll tell Ms. Nagao you had an emergency and couldn't make it."

Priya's mouth tumbled open as her dreams popped like a filmy soap bubble before her aching, undoubtedly bloodshot eyes. "What? No. No way. I'm here. On time, might I add."

"A clear mark of stupidity. Leave, now, before I call security to escort you from the building. For your own good."

Considering the matter closed, Heather whipped around and Priya scampered as fast as she could to head her off. "I don't think you understand what I've gone through to get here, both personally and professionally. I can't—won't—let you send me away. I can't blow this."

"Have you looked at yourself?" Heather scoffed. "You've already blown it."

"Then what else have I got to lose?"

"Dignity? Ms. Seth, I think you fail to understand the scope of what you're up against. If you walk into our boardroom looking like. . . . This is an interview with the managing partner of the firm, not casual Friday at IKEA. Marai Nagao will eat you alive."

"That's my problem," Priya said defiantly, crossing her arms. "Show me the way, or step aside, but I'm going through with this interview."

Heather rolled her tongue along the edge of teeth and, after a moment, shook her head. "It's your funeral." She stepped around Priya with a sigh. "This way. And keep up."

"Oh, the receptionist was just—" At the arch of Heather's brow, Priya swallowed the rest and gave her skirt a tug to urge it down as low as she could manage. Pushed almost to a jog by Heather's determined gait, she followed her down a long corridor of glass fronted offices and rows of cubicles.

Mercifully, most were empty.

Turning a corner, Heather opened a heavy set of double doors into a midsized conference room where Marai Nagao sat with her back to them, laptop open. Reality slammed into Priya like an eighteen-wheeler, and a stream of expletives stuttered through her throbbing head, following the staccato rhythm of clicking keys.

Heather cleared a gentle throat. "Ms. Nagao, I have Priyanka Seth here for her interview."

A head turned, sleek in its motion, as if every gesture, no matter how small, was done with the utmost authority, confidence, and purpose. Dark hair slashed down one side of her slender face in a biased bob while the other was razed short in a stylized fade. It gave her a contrasting edge that was all corporate samurai, as a Forbes article once called her, and Marai owned the moniker right down to the collection of katanas she kept on display in her office the way most men had signed sports paraphernalia.

Narrow eyes struck Priya first, highlighted by thick, dark lashes and bold brows, and full cheekbones dropped to nude lips with pale skin that shone without makeup or enhancement. Marai might be well into her fifties, but she was stunning.

A shiver of admiration trickled down Priya's spine as Marai set a pointed chin on the back of her hand and a subtle flick of fingers was all it took for Heather to spin on her heels and evaporate through the conference room doors. Palms pressed to her thighs, she rose from her seat and stopped before Priya, arms crossed and hip cocked, the lines of her pencil skirt accenting a lithe body with killer calves.

"As one of Harvard's youngest magna cum laudes,"—her eyes slid over Priya, glacial in scrutiny—"I must admit I'm . . . disappointed."

If it was possible, Priya would have folded herself into a series of tight, compact origami squares until she vanished on the spot. "Ms. Nagao—"

"I do not accept meaningless platitudes. Sorry is an excuse for the weak."

"I wasn't—"

"And I do not appreciate interruptions when I'm speaking. I have fired associates for less." The look in her dark eyes held the power to cripple the soul as she punctuated her threat with a moment of scathing silence. "If you can't be bothered to take this interview seriously, I can't be bothered to waste my time on you."

No. Panic flared through Priya's chest as Marai whisked around. In a handful of strides, she was within reach of the door. No, no, no, no, no. Do something. Fast!

"Zimmerman v. Wexler!" Priya blurted.

The world eased to a grinding halt of heart-stopping suspense as Marai turned in a single, graceful move. "What did you say?"

"Your art forgery win from 2003." Priya pushed authority into her voice. "You mopped the floor with Wexler's defense team and made yourself into a household name for litigation. All because you deigned to show up to court without a bra."

A fact that would've gone undetected had it not been for the courtroom losing power amid a heatwave in July. Undoubtedly roasting beneath her wool blazer, Marai removed it during her final address to the jury, and the next morning, plastered across the front page of every major paper and newsroom headline was a snap of Marai Nagao's nipples clearly visible through her crimson blouse.

"Wexler's defense team accused you of relying on your feminine wiles to sway the decision of a predominantly male jury, but instead of allowing yourself to be buried by bad press," Priya went on, "you leveraged the scandal—accepting every subsequent interview and media op to redirect the focus toward your client. The case. The groundbreaking win. And because of that you became name partner at twenty-seven. A legend."

It was a bold move. Almost as bold—or idiotic—as Priya's outfit, but now it was time to drive the point home and hopefully, win her own case. Because nothing short of falling on her sword was going to save her from this mess, and she hoped the naked honesty would not go unnoticed or unappreciated.

"I know I look like a mess. I thought about weaving a witty story to make me appear less stupid than I do right now, but the truth?" She resisted the urge to clamp her eyes shut with shame. "Last night I was drunk. Really drunk, when I accepted the interview update. This morning I barely had enough time to make it here, let alone sprint all the way home. So I opted for punctuality ahead of presentability. Accountability over apology, because if I can't convince you to look beyond this to see me, then I don't deserve to be here. Period."

Smothering silence fell between them before a glint of amusement sparked in Marai's otherwise indescribable gaze. "Clever girl. We're all hands on deck this weekend with an unexpected roadblock in a major case pushing to retrial. The change, though last minute, was necessary, and considering that all the notes from your previous interviewers were glowing in testament to your poise and professionalism, I suppose I can make an allowance this once."

Priya's knees weakened with relief so swift she nearly wobbled. "Thank you."

"As for that media hoopla, I would've been mortified if not for something my mother told me, often: 'If there's ever a day when you're caught with your pants down, do what any straight white man with more privilege than sense would do—show them both cheeks and zero fucks.'" Crossing her arms, she raised her chin. "Marek, Nagao & Silver has four international offices—London, New York, Toronto, and Tokyo—with over eight hundred of the best lawyers handling the most sensitive and complex commercial litigation, white-collar criminal matters, and regulatory proceedings. We've maintained a ruthless and impeccable reputation for more than thirty years." Marai's brow arched the barest fraction. "And you think you have what it takes to join our ranks?"

"I do." Pulling back her shoulders, Priya imagined herself wearing her pristine suit instead of creased Valentino. "I was the president of Harvard Women's Law Association where I organized campus visits with various female Supreme Court justices, litigators, and activists. I am a prominent and passionate advocate for women's rights and offered aid to victims of rape and domestic violence," she said with a burst of pride. "Pursuant to that, I interned for two semesters as an investigative analyst for the Sex Crimes Unit of the Manhattan District Attorney's Office, and—"

"Your résumé is impressive, Ms. Seth, otherwise, you wouldn't be here," Marai interrupted. "What I'm interested in ascertaining is: Why you?"

Because I deserve this.

Because you are everything I aspire to be.

Because I don't lose.

If the accomplishments and vast references Priya had practically sold a kidney to acquire weren't enough, what was left?

"If you're not interested in hearing about what I've done, I won't waste your time with a rehearsed speech, tears, or an eloquent soliloquy about my life's ambitions," Priya said at last. "I can't tell you why. I can only show you."

Marai's gaze remained brutally intense. Impassive as stone. Unreadable. And just when Priya was about to give up all hope, she nodded her head with a faint incline. "I think we're done here."

Relief rushed through her so fast and bright, Priya was dizzy. Every inch of her light and airy with threads of helium-inflated balloons lifting her straight off the ground. "I got the mentorship?"

"A job, yes—contract based, to start—but the mentorship,"—Marai extended a cautionary finger—"must be earned."

The threads of those balloons were cut with a brutal snip—and Priya thumped solidly back to reality. "Earned?"

"Everyone at this firm possesses stellar academic credentials, but it remains to be seen if that's all you bring to the table. If you want the mentorship, you'll have to prove you're as good as you think you are."

Buzzing sounded between her ears, something like a deep, internal scream of anguished fury. "I didn't realize this was a . . ." Contest? Competition? "I thought—"

"If I hear anything other than thank you slip out of your mouth, I'll rescind my offer."

Priya snapped straight. Nodded. "Thank you."

"Hm." Marai nodded, then tilted her head in thought. "Seth . . . any relation to the Lakshmi Seth, by chance?"

Priya tried—with every flagging ounce of self-control she still possessed—not to sigh. "She's my mother."

Marai's unreadable expression flickered for the barest moment with surprise. Fascination. "I'm amazed you didn't lead with that little detail."

"Name dropping is lazy. And tacky. If I succeed or fail, I want it to be based on merit."

"Hm." Marai lifted her chin. "Heather will be in touch once HR has the necessary paperwork and the final stages of our background checks are completed, but you will start sometime early next week. When I see you next,"—her gaze crawled over Priya, dissecting every molecule before reaching her eyes and remaining there—"I expect you to be both punctual and appropriately attired."