Page 19 of The Wedding Situation Romance

I am starting to have a panic attack. Like my throat is too dry, and my eyes are too hot, and there’s not enough air in my lungs.

“I know,” she says supportively. “We have to be hopeful. But we also have to be realistic. The numbers don’t lie. And the numbers are low. If you want to save We Still Do, both the new couple and the older clients, you’re going to have to find a new donor. A consistent one with a fat wallet. And fast.”

A fat wallet.

There is a big fat problem with that, and it’s not that I don’t know anyone that fits that description, but that I do.

That is one part of this job I don’t love. Don’t get me wrong, I love taking money from our fine government to help its people with what is arguably the most important relationship of their lives. I also don’t mind asking for community support because anyone who is married could be a part of the community I amhelping. From that point of view, it becomes more of a hand up than a handout.

But begging is not something I love to do. I’m not a groveler. My dad is an attorney, for Pete’s sake. He didn’t raise no beggar. And if you’re wondering why I don’t just ask him for the money, it’s because I’m stubborn, plain and simple. Compassionate as he is, my father is a logical man. He wouldn’t have the repertoire he does in the courtroom if he wasn’t. And when I told him I wanted to start a nonprofit, he made up a list of all the reasons why I shouldn’t, from financial to logistical to obstacles that would make my career journey a pain in the ass.

“If you are willing to tackle every bullet on that list, Quinny, then go ahead. I’ll jump-start it, but after that, this is your baby,” he told me. Between that initial down payment that convinced the banker (a freshly divorced forty-year-old woman who hates both marriage and lawyers) that I could pull this off and my determination, we have done well. Until just now.

In short, I won’t ask him for help on this. It’s one thing to be a private donor; it’s another to fund the bulk of our expenses. My dad might be rich, but he’s not old-money rich. No, I only know one man with that kind of cash. And asking him for help is going to be the biggest bullet I’ve ever bitten.

Chapter 7

Reid

“Your honor.Marriage is built on vows, but jurisdiction is built on facts. Proof of what is considered reasonable. Not fair, but earned. Because court cases like this aren’t about what’s fair. They’re about getting back what you put in. And I think it’s safe to say that my client put in a lot more than she took out. She was, for lack of better words, the breadwinner in this case. She is a CEO, works sixty plus hours a week, funds childcare, the mortgage, the transportation, and still makes it to every ballet recital and swim meet. While her husband prioritizedliving his best life now, she prioritized life. Not just for herself but for her employees, her children, and even high-cost medical procedures for their Goldendoodle, Chester. My client is not seeking revenge out of spite. She wants resolve. She wants to close the book and move on. She wants what she hasearned.”

While those are my words, words I spoke just this morning at the last hearing of my current case, I am not the one reciting them now. That would be my colleague, Benson, who is literally reading my “speech,” as he likes to call it, to everyone present at Remington Attorneys.

The room erupts and I can’t help my grin. Itwasa good end to a case I knew I had in the bag from day one. Not a hard deduction to make when the opposing client works as a self-employed luxury car detailer, landing only one Lambo a month and spending the rest of his time “testing new products on his Corvette”. A Corvette that was purchased by, you guessed it, my client.

“You know, August,” Benson goes on while he continues to stroke my ego in front of everyone. “I really do think you might be the best damn divorce attorney I’ve ever witnessed,” he says, addressing me by my professional name. My legal name. It’s no secret to everyone here that I go by my middle name, Reid, in personal settings, but around here, I go by my given name. The name welded to the front of my one-hundred-million-dollar building. A name that even passing airlines can read.

That said, I’m not ashamed of my name. But considering not everyone is fond of divorce lawyers, I like to keep things compartmentalized.

“Thank you, Benson. It was a good case. An easy one, but great nonetheless,” I brag. “And speaking of that, I have things to do. And so do all of you,” I call out, and everyone cheers again before getting back to work.

And even if I’m not everyone’s cup of tea (I’m more of a whiskey up kinda guy), I can confidently say–I fucking love my job.

I take the elevator up to my office. I have one more appointment today, and then I’m getting out of here. Jessie, my secretary, is with me, briefing me on the new client.

“His name is Mike Overholt. Michael,” she says.

“Age?” I ask.

“Thirty-nine.”

“How long have they been married?”

“Seventeen years,”

“Kids?”

“No,”

“Interesting,” I say.

“Infertility,” she says.

I nod.

“He works in tech. She’s a homemaker,”

I snort. I’m not dissing homemakers. Stay at home wives, specifically mothers or ones that have to take care of the house while their husbands work seventy plus hours a week, are not to be joked about. But they have no kids. And that is going to make this case very, very easy.