Billable Hours & Bad Decisions

The digital clock on the MLC Centre flickered in the harsh Sydney afternoon sun, casting a long shadow across the bustling pavement of Martin Place. It was a Friday afternoon in late winter, exactly twelve months before a girl would be found dead on the polished floors of New South Wales Parliament House. But today, the only thing dying was the patience of the four women currently trying to survive the final hours of the corporate work week.

At thirty-two, Charlotte ‘Charlie’ Henderson was the group’s undisputed matriarch, a trait honed by managing a high-stakes courtroom by day and twin five-year-olds by night. Sitting in her office at the New South Wales Office of the Director of Public Prosecutions, she pushed a stray lock of thick, dark hair behind her ear. Charlie was a striking blend of her heritage—possessing the warm, olive skin and regal elegance of her Polynesian mother, and the sharp, expressive eyes of her Italian father. Her life looked flawless from the outside: a Senior Crown Prosecutor, married to Alexander, a high-ranking Defence Force officer who looked like a movie star in khaki, living in a sprawling, multi-million-dollar terrace in Double Bay.

But right now, Charlie was hiding behind a tower of manila folders, staring at an encrypted chat window on her monitor.

The group chat was titled Billable Hours & Bad Decisions. It was a digital lifeline that had connected the four of them since their days at a prestigious Sydney high school, where they had been an inseparable, fiercely ambitious quartet of outsiders who refused to be overlooked.

Lucy: 🚨 CODE RED. DROP YOUR BRIEFS. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. 🚨

Three blocks away, in a sleek, glass-and-steel monolith on Martin Place, Brionne read the text and let out a soft groan. Brionne was a corporate defence lawyer at a magic-circle firm, a job that paid incredibly well but demanded her soul in return. With her flawless complexion, a beautiful heritage of Irish and Black American roots, and a wardrobe of tailored, razor-sharp blazers, she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. Instead, she was drowning in paperwork. Her manicured fingers flew across her keyboard.

Brionne: Lucy, I am literally in the middle of a multi-billion-dollar merger. If this is another TikTok link of a golden retriever playing the piano, I will sue you for loss of billable hours.

Lucy: Better. The ticket portal for the Ernie Awards at Parliament House just opened for next year. Tables sell out in four minutes. I have my corporate Amex out. Do I press purchase?

Across the square, inside the bustling, neon-lit edit suites of the major TV network, Donna let out a sharp laugh that startled a passing junior producer. Donna was an investigative reporter, a woman whose fierce German heritage manifested in a brilliant, relentless BS-detector and an unapologetic, openly gay lifestyle that made her the ultimate wing-woman.

Donna: Press it! Press it like your life depends on it! I need a night where I can legally boo men in public without an HR representative calling me into a glass office the next morning.

Charlie: Hold on, next year? I need to consult the family war council. Alexander is currently deployed on some top-secret Defence mission, and the twins have gymnastics, violin, and Mandarin tutoring.

Brionne: Charlie, you live in the most expensive pocket of the Eastern Suburbs. Pay a nanny. Heck, pay three nannies. You are coming.

Charlie: Good point. My sanity is worth more than the GDP of a small nation. I’m in. But I swear, if I get seated next to another conservative politician who tries to explain my own criminal law cases to me, I’m putting an espresso martini through his linen suit.

Lucy: Done! Table for four booked. Standard VIP package, which promises ‘premium Australian sparkling’ (read: sparkling headache) and a front-row seat to the slaughter of the patriarchy.

Donna: Premium sparkling? Please. I’ll be smuggling a flask of top-shelf gin in my blazer. The media network I work for is bound to win at least three Ernies next year for ‘Most Tone-Deaf Broadcast’. I need to be sufficiently numb to watch my executive producers accept the shame.

Brionne paused, leaning back in her ergonomic leather chair. She looked out over the sparkling blue waters of Sydney Harbour, a thought clicking into place. She thought of Lucy, who completed their circle. Lucy was a gorgeous mix of Australian-European, Asian, and Pacific Islander heritage, working as in-house counsel for a massive insurance firm. She was brilliant, but she had a habit of making impulsive romantic decisions.

Brionne: Speaking of shame... Lucy, shouldn’t you be checking with the ball-and-chain before booking a wild Friday night a year in AdJackson? How is married life treating the new bride?

A tense, two-minute silence filled the digital chat room.

Lucy: [Lucy has left the chat]

Lucy: [Lucy has rejoined the chat]

Lucy: Married life is dead, Brionne. Deadlier than my career prospects in this insurance firm.

Donna stopped her video playback monitor, her jaw dropping.

Donna: Wait, what?! It’s been six months! The wedding cake is still in your freezer!

Lucy: Well, the cake can stay there because Jack Armstrong is currently packing his monogrammed suitcases. Turns out, marrying a man who organises his sock drawer by thread-count and thinks ‘spicing up the bedroom’ means turning the ceiling fan on medium is a recipe for disaster. We are divorcing. I am a free woman.

Charlie: Oh, sweetie. I’m so sorry. Do you want me to use my Crown Prosecutor connections to look up his tax records? We can definitely find something.

Lucy: Don’t be sorry! I feel like I just escaped a high-security prison. Next year’s Ernie Awards are officially my ‘Rebirth Party’. I don’t want Jack, I don’t want his boring corporate law logic, and I don’t want to hear about his billable hours ever again. I want excitement. I want danger. I want someone completely out of my usual tax bracket.

Donna: That’s the spirit! Next year, we find you a gorgeous, rebellious distraction. I’ll be your wing-woman. Parliament House won’t know what hit it.

Brionne: I give it twelve months. By the time this event actually rolls around, we’re all going to be so desperate for a drink that the security guards will have to tackle us at the door.

Charlie: Let them try. I know the head of parliamentary security. He owes me a favour from a grand larceny case last year.

Lucy: Perfect. It’s a date. Twelve months from now. Four women, a table at Parliament House, unlimited booing, and absolutely no Jack Armstrongs allowed.

The digital spreadsheet macros closed simultaneously across four different offices in the Sydney CBD. The four women returned to their respective worlds, the deep, unbreakable bond of a ten-year friendship humming quietly in the background of their busy lives. They had survived high school, heartbreaks, and the brutal climb up the corporate ladder together. They could survive anything.

Or so they thought.

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Twelve months passed in a blur of billable hours, high-stakes court trials, media scandals, a finalised quickie divorce for Lucy, and double-stroller chaos in Double Bay for Charlie.

But as the next year’s winter rolled in, the clock finally ran out.

On the morning of the long-awaited Ernie Awards, twenty-five-year-old Eva stood in a sunlit executive suite overlooking the harbour, carefully smoothing the lapels of a freshly pressed tuxedo. As the personal assistant to Oliver Jackson—Australia’s golden-boy morning TV host—she was used to managing oversized egos and impossible schedules. Today, Oliver was widely tipped to take out the night’s most humiliating satirical award, and the media circus was already spinning.

Eva’s phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, expecting another frantic demand from her boss. Instead, the screen displayed a brief, encrypted message from an unsaved number.

Her breath caught in her throat as she read the single line:

The guest list is finalised. Be in position by eight.

Eva stared at the text, her fingers trembling slightly before she quickly cleared the screen. She looked out the window at the distant, sandstone facade of Parliament House, a heavy weight settling in her chest. She had spent months blending into the background of Sydney’s elite, pretending to be just another ambitious young graduate climbing the corporate ladder.

She turned as the door clicked open, plastering on a professional smile. Tonight was supposed to be a night of satire, champagne, and public mockery. But as Eva checked her watch, she knew that for some people in the room, the games were already over.

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