A topic of conversation that came up was how vastly different dating is in this day and age, compared to the experiences of those of us who have been married a long time, which is a decade in my case. This prompted a couple of the women to show the different types of apps they were on, which then brought out a comical array of stories from everyone, mostly about first dates. I could hardly take a sip of my wine, I was laughing so hard.
I was curious at the types of profiles some of the women described, and a few offered to show me. One newbie to the group showed me how a couple of the apps worked. All she had to do was swipe left or right. She talked about the “thrill” of swiping, how it was like a fun game.
I toyed with the idea of setting up a profile just for curiosity’s sake.
But I didn’t, did I?
Or did I?
Holden interrupts my thoughts. “You didn’t what?”
“Huh?” I rub my temples. “Nothing.”
My hands start to shake, and when I rub them together, they are ice cold. The chills racing up and down my body cause me to wonder if I should be home in bed. Maybe I’m coming down with something.
Or maybe it’s guilt.
It could even be my own lack of awareness, a missing memory I can’t seem to retrieve.
I wouldn’t have used those pictures to set up a dating profile.
I couldn’t have.
I rest my head in my hands. But what if . . .
No, Sib, don’t go there . . .
What if I was a couple of bottles deep?
You’re a lot of things, but you’re not your father, I warn. Stop transferring his bad behavior onto yourself. As much as I loved my father, I don’t want to end up like him. I didn’t see his anger so much as I saw him feebly controlling it. He’d be most accurately described as a bitter alcoholic.
No. No way. I’d never embarrass Holden or myself like that. We have our share of problems, but not to the extent I’d advertise my rocky relationship status on a dating site with provocative photographs he didn’t know about just to get back at him.
Our careers are important to us, and with them, our privacy. I know what it’s like to grow up in a family under constant scrutiny, plagued by rumors and innuendos. Holden and I both understand how critical it is to keep our personal issues to ourselves. It works for our public persona, yet it’s crippling to the sustainability of our marriage to shove down unresolved issues like a college frat boy guzzling shots.
Except, the annoying voice of reason in my head chirps, you do stupid shit when you’ve been drinking.
I groan.
“Sibley, are you even listening?”
“Of course.” I panic, worried I’ve missed something he’s said. “Where are you?”
“Home for the moment. I’m about to leave for class.”
“I thought you didn’t have class until one?”
“I have a meeting at ten. It’s on the shared calendar.” His smug voice makes me want to smack him. “You know, the Google Calendar you insisted we start using?”
Refusing to engage in this battle, I ignore the snarky comment. “Tonight, then.”
The door barrels open, and startled, I frown at the intrusion, the phone glued to my ear. The only person who doesn’t knock consistently is my redheaded Amazon woman of a paralegal, Leslie.
Still, even she knows to announce herself before strolling in first thing in the morning.
Except it’s not her but my wrinkled seventy-two-year-old boss, Roger Felderman, one of three managing partners of the firm.
His office is one above, but it might as well be on a different planet.
Only the three of them—Roger, Paul, and John—have luxurious suites on the seventeenth floor, their offices inaccessible to the rest of the building. Primarily I see them in monthly meetings or at company galas. They only come down to our level, literally and figuratively, when someone deserves a promotion or royally fucks up.
I think about all the cases I’ve won and how dedicated I am to my clients here. I’ve always wanted to be made partner, but it seems like it will be another five years before that will be possible. Maybe the latest case has shown them how much they need me in this corner office and on a fast track to becoming the first woman partner in the firm.
Maybe it’s time, I think excitedly.
“Roger,” I say out loud, automatically disconnecting and turning the ringer off.
Hurriedly, I scan my blouse and skirt for coffee stains. As always, Roger looks immaculate in his suit and polished shoes, his white hair still thick, his back straight as a steel rod.
I realize too late the empty vodka bottles are lined up on my desk next to my now-empty iced coffee.
“Sibley.” He acknowledges me with a curt nod. “Mind if I come in for a minute?” It seems a silly question since he’s already invaded my territory.
“Depends”—I offer him a big smile—“if it’s good news or not.”
He doesn’t return my smile, which automatically worries me.
“You may certainly come in.” I stand and cross the room, relieved I’ve changed into my heels so my five-six height doesn’t diminish against his imposing figure. “You’re always welcome to visit. I don’t see you enough.”
He doesn’t acknowledge this comment; his troubled eyes simply scan the contents of the desk, narrowing in on the liquor bottles.
Shit. I wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt.
It’s too late. I can’t swoop them into the trash, since they’ve already been spotted.
“Mimosas for breakfast?”
“No.” I titter nervously. “I found those in my drawer from our last company mixer.”
In college, I was required to attend sobriety classes as punishment for a public-intoxication ticket. A man there taught me an invaluable trick. As the CEO of a large organization, he spent most of his time with stakeholders and clients, which meant lots of drinks, dinners, boozing, and schmoozing. He recommended I order a club soda and Sprite to keep in hand so that I wasn’t pestered continuously to have another and so I could control my sobriety in a room full of avid drinkers.
This method means I have total control.
Until lately, that is.
Roger motions toward the door. “I didn’t see Leslie at her desk, so I thought it would be a good time to catch you.”
“She’s in at eight.”
“Any potential new cases?”
“I have one in about fifteen minutes.”
“No problem. This won’t take long.” He motions to the other chair. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
This can’t be good, a managing partner asking me to sit in my own office.
“Fine.” My legs would have given out if not for the chair, so I gratefully settle into the leather. I picked out these chairs because they’re luxurious enough to relax in, and though they mold to fit you like a glove, they have enough support, so you don’t sink into them.
Believe it or not, I learned a lot about furniture and easing clients into tense, lengthy conversations by testing out different seating arrangements. I just didn’t think I’d be on the receiving end. I physically shove my hand under my thigh to keep from bringing it to my mouth, one of my bad habits Roger doesn’t need to see.
“Sibley.” His vibrant blue eyes are fixated on mine. “You’ve been a great addition to the team for the eight years you’ve been part of this firm. You’re a remarkable lawyer with an uncanny ability to get to the crux of the matter, and that’s what I’m going to do right now—just rip the Band-Aid off and get to the heart of it.”
I slowly nod.
“Paul and John and I, we’ve never questioned your judgment.” There’s a slight pause. “Or integrity. Or I should say, we haven’t had to until recently.” His eye contact never wavers. “We take our responsibilities in this field and client relationships very seriously here.”
“Yes, we do.”
“That’s why this is so disappointing to our group.”
I stare at him blankly.
“We received a complaint.”
Spit it out! my brain screams. “Stemming from what?”
“It’s unethical to sleep with a client, Sibley. I don’t need to tell you the legal ramifications or the risk you’re putting yourself at—and the firm.” His hand gingerly touches his impeccable hair. “Not to mention the other questions your lack of judgment raises.”
Stuttering, “I don’t understand.”
“You’re married. At least, you were.” He shakes his head. “Maybe not after this.”
“Who am I . . . what are you talking about?”
“You know I would approach you first about any concern regarding inappropriate behavior. I’m not one to mince words, but this came to Paul’s attention, and we discussed it privately. We’ve kept an eye on the situation, and it’s unfortunate.” Glumly, he stares at me. “Hell, maybe we should have acted right away and not waited. I don’t think any of us wanted to believe it.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.” I wipe my clammy palms on the chair.
“We have photos.”
Mortified, I ask, “From a dating profile?”
He tilts his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing.”
“Even though your client interaction happened after you left the building, we were still notified. It doesn’t change the impropriety of it.”
“With all due respect, Roger, can you please tell me who this involves?” I’m louder than I intend, and the voice in my head commands my composure. It is, after all, a sign of a seasoned attorney, the ability to remain calm under pressure. The partners don’t do well with feminine wails, from what I’ve seen with the staff.
“You should know who you’re sleeping with,” he spits out. “I shouldn’t have to tell you. Mr. Marcona.”
“Nico?” I gasp. “You think I’m sleeping with Nico Marcona?” There is such a thing as a dumb question, and I have my answer. His mouth is a flat line. “We only went out one time,” I hurriedly add. “For drinks. To discuss his case. Nothing happened.”
Nico’s divorce required a lot of time, and it’s true I didn’t mind his presence. We spent a lot of time discussing his case and how to proceed, and in the beginning, we had clear boundaries. He would come to the office during regular business hours, and someone would always be around, other attorneys or Leslie.
But as we got more comfortable with each other, I did a poor job of keeping my personal and professional lives separate, and I made a rookie mistake: I confided too much in him about my own problems.
The lines became distinctly blurred.
And then the night of my birthday happened.
“Sibley, do me a favor. Don’t look me in the eye and lie to me. You’re better than that. You’ve put your career at risk, and your future with the firm.” He eyes me sadly. “I know temptation runs rampant in life and especially with this type of clientele.” He sighs. “We’ve had eight years together. I don’t want to think even worse of the situation . . .”
“And me,” I finish.
He nods.
“I’m . . .”
He holds up a hand. “I’m going to have Tim come in and pack up your office.”
CHAPTER 7
Sibley
“What?” I shake my head incredulously. “You’re firing me?”
“This is a serious breach of trust, not to mention an ethical dilemma, considering a bar complaint could be filed. Piss off the wrong person, and this could become a serious transgression. It is, don’t get me wrong, but we are going to deal with it internally.” Roger slaps his knee. “We have to take the best course of action for the firm in case this blows up in our face.”
“And in this case, you’re terminating me?”
“Not exactly.”
“What does that mean?”
“We want you to get help.”
“With what?” I slump in my chair. “I’m not a sex addict. What is this even about?”
“Not that type of addiction,” he says uncomfortably. “Unless that’s an issue too.”
“Who wants me to get help?”
“The partners. Paul. John. Myself.” He waves his hand helplessly. “Even Dr. Bradford.”
Wait, Holden’s been involved in this decision? Son of a bitch. I clasp my hands together so he doesn’t see them shaking.
Roger continues. “We do care about you, Sibley. That’s why we want to approach this with some sensitivity.” He clears his throat. “Your husband mentioned you’d had a rough childhood, compounded by mental illness in your mother and the tragic death of your father.”
Wait, Holden mentioned my upbringing to my bosses? When?
I grit my teeth. Roger waits for me to respond, but I’m focused on Holden and the final nail he’s pounded in the coffin of our marriage. All bets are now off when it comes to my husband.
As he waves his hand toward my desk and the offending bottles, there’s an awkward pause. “That’s why we want to see if we can remedy this among ourselves.”
“It’s not what you think . . .”
“Paul used to struggle with alcohol addiction, and he’s been sober now for ten years.”
“I don’t have a drinking problem,” I say quietly. “And I have a meeting in five.”
“You’re missing the point, my dear. My secretary already spoke to Leslie. Your next appointment is no longer your concern; it’s been reassigned.”
“I’m not . . .”
“There’s nothing more to say, Sibley. Do what we ask, and let’s hope we can move forward. We’re suspending you without pay in the hopes you will focus on recovery.”
I think about the savings account I drained. Someone might as well put me out of my misery now. “What, exactly, are you asking me to do?”
“Tim has the packet. It outlines the requirements for us to reinstate you.” He winces. “I’m afraid it’s not going to be easy to earn our trust back, if that’s even what you want.”
“I want to keep my job,” I say shakily. “Keep being the best at what I do.”
With a glance at my ring finger, he says, “If you do decide to pursue this thing with Mr. Marcona, be warned, it will result in your immediate dismissal.”
My jaw drops. I count to ten in my head to save myself from saying something I’ll regret later on.
Roger rises slowly, but with the confidence of a distinguished attorney who’s been practicing for the length of time I’ve been alive. He can’t be rushed, even after having a difficult conversation.
“The plant,” I say. “Can you make sure the plant is watered?”
He gives me an odd stare.
“It releases oxygen during the day instead of at night,” I lamely add.
Raising a bushy brow, he says, “Your office will still be taken care of.”
Tim appears in the doorway as suddenly as Roger disappears, an empty cardboard box in hand. “Sibley Bradford.” He shakes his head; pity laces his voice. “Today is not your day.”
I raise my chin at him haughtily. “Depends on who you ask.”
“What do you need?” He waves his arm around the office. “I’ll pack it up and walk you out.”
“My purse, laptop . . .”
He holds a hand up to interrupt.
“Items out of the closet,” I finish.
“The laptop is company issued. You can’t take it with you.”
“But it has all of my case files.”
“Orders from Roger.” He throws his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
I brush a strand of hair behind my ear in frustration as Tim follows me around the office like I’m on an invisible leash, scanning the items I grab, tossing them in the box.
Without asking and despite my protests, he starts to rifle through my gym bag and laptop case before proudly removing a computer charger, as if feeling self-important at this discovery. “This has to stay.”
I roll my eyes.
“Anyth
ing else?” he asks innocently.
I motion to the closet. “I have a small plastic container in there, filled with some personal effects.” Mostly sentimental: it contains some old photos and accolades I’ve received over the years, including a box of stationery that belonged to my mother. I’ve written a few personal letters on the pale-yellow paper, and each time, I catch a lingering whiff of the floral scent of her patchouli.
As Tim reaches onto the top shelf and pulls out the bin, I stand close enough to steal a glance over his shoulder, studying the contents of the closet for my stash of vodka.
“Anything else?” Giving me a side-eye, he notices my stumped gaze on the shelf. “If you’re looking for the bottles, they’ve all been removed.”
“What do you mean, ‘all’?” I murmur.
“There were multiple.”
“One.” I shake my head. “Maybe two.”
“Six.”
“We have a lot of clients that like to drink,” I say defensively.
He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me, Mrs. Bradford.”
“When were they taken?” It sounds as if we’re talking about a person, a child, being removed from its custodial parents.
“Last night.”
“Well, you did a poor job. You missed all the airplane bottles,” I say sourly.
“No, I didn’t. They were all empty.”
My face reddens. “Do you know why I’m being asked to take a leave of absence?”
“The bottles gave me a hint.” Tim frowns and quickly pats me on the arm. “My brother had a wicked drinking problem.”
“What happened to him?”
“Well,” Tim says sadly, “he died.”
“Of cirrhosis or another type of liver disease?”
“No.” Tim motions me out the door. “He hit and killed a pedestrian.”
“On second thought, wait!” I quickly retrieve the snake plant, grunting at its heaviness. Tim gives me a confused look, and I snap, “It was a gift, and it’s mine.”
I’m standing numbly as Tim locks up my door when my colleague and friend Tanner Ellis comes around the corner. I hadn’t thought far enough to consider the humiliation of being walked out in front of my cronies.
The Imposter Page 7
