Too Late To Beg

TAMSIN

I returned to the family lawyer's office the next morning, the divorce papers carefully folded in my bag, and sat across from the same man who had drafted them not too long ago.

"I want to take my husband to court," I said without preamble. "James Whitmore. I need you to represent me in the divorce proceedings."

The lawyer set down his pen and looked at me with an expression I could not quite read, something caught between sympathy and discomfort. He folded his hands on the desk between us and leaned forward slightly.

"Mrs. Whitmore," he said carefully, "if your husband does not want the divorce, there is nothing I can do for you. I cannot represent you in this matter."

I stared at him. "What do you mean you cannot represent me? You drafted the papers."

"Drafting papers is one thing. Taking James Whitmore to court is another entirely." He shook his head slowly. "Going against the Whitmores would be suicide for my career. I am sorry, but I cannot risk it."

I left his office feeling something cold settle in my chest.

The second lawyer I visited that morning said nearly the same thing, his refusal polite but firm, his eyes apologetic but unyielding. The third lawyer did not even let me finish explaining before he stood and showed me to the door, his discomfort so obvious it would have been almost comical under different circumstances.

By the time I returned to Poppy's house, I was trembling with a fury so sharp it felt like it might cut through my skin.

I sat on the edge of the guest bed and stared at the wall, my hands clenched into fists, my mind racing through options that did not exist and solutions that crumbled before I could fully form them.

My phone rang. Poppy's name flashed across the screen.

"How did it go?" she asked when I answered.

I told her. All of it. The refusals, the fear in their eyes, the way they had practically tripped over themselves to distance their practices from anything that might bring them into conflict with the Whitmore family.

Poppy was silent for a long moment, and when she finally spoke, her voice was tight with anger.

"This is ridiculous. James cannot just control everything."

"Apparently he can," I said flatly.

"Wait." Her tone shifted, became thoughtful. "There is one place you could try. LP and Associates. They are the biggest law firm in the country. They have some of the best divorce attorneys I have ever heard of."

I straightened slightly. "Do you think they would take the case?"

"Their fees are high," Poppy warned. "Very high. But they are ruthless, and they hardly ever lose. I do not know if any lawyer there would be willing to go against the Whitmores, but it is worth a shot."

She gave me the address, apologizing that she could not come with me because she had to return to work. I thanked her and ended the call, already reaching for my coat.

The building that housed LP and Associates was tall and modern, all glass and steel, the kind of structure that seemed designed to intimidate anyone who walked through its doors. I stood outside for a moment, gathering my resolve, then stepped into the lobby.

The receptionist directed me to the intake clerk on the third floor, a young man with sharp eyes and an efficient manner who listened to my explanation without interrupting. When I mentioned my intention to divorce James Whitmore, his fingers paused over his keyboard.

"Whitmore," he repeated, looking up at me with something close to alarm. "As in the Whitmore family?"

"Yes."

He exhaled slowly. "They are very powerful. There is only one attorney in this firm who stands a chance against them." He hesitated. "But it depends on his mood. He takes cases according to his own judgment, not according to policy."

I felt my pulse quicken. "Who is he?"

"Let me take your file to him," the clerk said, standing. "I will get back to you."

He disappeared down a corridor, leaving me waiting, my heart pounding so loudly I was certain everyone in the building could hear it. I paced back and forth, my hands clasped tightly together, trying to breathe evenly and failing.

Ten minutes passed. Each one felt like an hour.

Finally, the clerk returned, and there was something that might have been surprise in his expression.

"Congratulations," he said. "He is interested in your case. You can go up to his office now."

Relief swept through me so powerfully I nearly swayed. "Thank you."

I followed him to the elevator, then down another corridor on the top floor, past offices with glass walls and expensive furniture, until we stopped in front of a door with a simple nameplate at the top.

LP.

I looked at it, then back at the clerk. "This firm..."

"Yes," he said. "He is the boss here. This firm belongs mostly to him."

I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.

The clerk left, and I stood alone in the hallway for a moment, staring at the door. Then I raised my hand and knocked.

"Come in," a voice called from inside.

I pushed the door open and stepped into the office.

The man stood by the window, his back to me, hands in his pockets, looking out over the city below. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture relaxed in a way that suggested absolute confidence.

Something about him seemed familiar.

My eyes dropped to the nameplate on his desk.

Attorney Price.

My heart skipped a beat.

"Price?" I said aloud, the word barely a whisper.

Could it be?

I looked up, and in that moment, the man turned, his hands still in his pockets, his gaze meeting mine across the room.

I took a step back, shock stealing the air from my lungs.

"Leonardo Price?"

He smiled, slow and warm and achingly familiar.

"Hello, Tam," he said. "It is nice to see you again."