Chapter 1
Lila Voss tightened her grip on the Metro pole as the train lurched forward, the press of bodies around her shifting in unison. The air was thick with burnt coffee, cheap cologne, and the muted hum of a city that ran on ambition and caffeine.
Her phone buzzed in her palm.
Grayson, 6:12 a.m. Voss. 9. a.m. conference room. Real work.
Her breath hitched. Real work. Not another research memo, not another late-night summary dumped on her desk with a clipped thanks that didn’t even come with eye contact. Six months of clawing her way up at Grayson & Hart, and this was the first time Victor Grayson himself had acknowledged her for something that might actually matter.
Lila thumbed off the screen, staring blankly at the reflection of the train’s flickering overhead lights against the dark window. Don’t screw this up.
She adjusted her dad’s old leather satchel on her shoulder. It was a relic from his small-town law days, scuffed at the corners, smelling faintly of ink and worn paper. Back home, it was a symbol of integrity. Here? Just another out-of-place thing in a city that thrived on polish.
The train lurched again. A sharp elbow jabbed her side.
“Seriously?” Lila muttered, twisting slightly.
The culprit—a man in a navy three-piece suit, nose buried in The Wall Street Journal—didn’t even glance at her.
“Hey, buddy,” she tried again, voice flat. “Space is a thing. Maybe share it?”
The man flicked his eyes toward her, unimpressed, then shifted half an inch. Not enough.
She exhaled sharply, letting it go. Fine. She had bigger things to focus on.
The Metro rattled through the tunnel, fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Across from her, a young intern in an ill-fitting blazer was mouthing words under his breath—probably practicing his lines for some big-shot boss. Lila knew the feeling. She had spent the entire walk to the station rehearsing her own pitch.
I’m ready. I’m sharp. Don’t bench me.
Because if today was real work, that meant she had to prove it.
Her gaze flicked to the overhead screen just as the TV anchor’s voice cut through the white noise of the train.
“—TelCorp remains under scrutiny as another whistleblower steps forward. The defense team has yet to issue a statement—”
The screen flashed to a suited executive ducking microphones, his face tightening as he pushed through the press swarm.
Lila narrowed her eyes. TelCorp again. The case was all over the news, a mess of leaks, government contracts, and half-buried scandals. If this was tied to the case Grayson wanted her on—
Her phone buzzed again. A new email from the firm.
SUBJECT: Voss, 9 a.m. Conference room. Meeting
Her pulse skipped.
The train screeched into Farragut North, the brakes letting out an ear-piercing whine. Around her, commuters shifted, some already pushing toward the doors before the train had fully stopped.
Lila tightened her grip on her satchel, weaving through the crowd with practiced ease.
A man in a wrinkled trench coat blocked the exit, scrolling through his phone like he had nowhere urgent to be.
“Move, asshole,” Lila muttered under her breath.
He glanced up, startled, then shuffled aside.
She stepped onto the platform, the stale underground air giving way to something cooler. The scent of impending rain mixed with the city’s usual cocktail of exhaust fumes and desperation.
Lila adjusted her blazer, rolling her shoulders.
Her feet carried her toward the escalator, but something made her glance left.
A black SUV sat idling near the curb outside the station entrance, its tinted windows blank and unreadable.
Her steps faltered.
It was probably nothing. D.C. was full of government types, security details, and corporate sharks who liked to pretend they were important enough to need an escort. But something about the way it just… sat there, still as a held breath, made her stomach tighten.
Before she could think too hard about it, the SUV’s turn signal flicked on.
It peeled away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic.
Lila exhaled, shaking off the unease.
Focus, Voss. You’ve got bigger things to deal with than some car.
She pulled her phone from her blazer pocket and checked the time. 8:02 a.m. An hour until she had to walk into that conference room and prove she wasn’t just another disposable associate.
The rain started spitting as she stepped onto the sidewalk, a fine mist clinging to her skin.
She set her jaw, hoisted her satchel higher on her shoulder, and walked toward the firm.
Real work? Prove it.
