The restaurant Calvin picked had white tablecloths and low light, the kind of place where deals get made over dessert nobody eats. I got there eleven minutes early anyway. Old habit. Never let anyone see you arrive rattled.

Calvin stood when I walked up. He always did that, even back in law school, even when it wasn't cool to.

"Jade Collins." He smiled like this was a coincidence and not a crisis. "You look like someone who hasn't slept."

"I look like someone who spent her weekend cleaning up a privilege breach." I sat before he could pull out my chair. "Let's not pretend this is a date, Calvin."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He sat too, folding his hands on the table. "Talk to me."

So I did. I laid it out the way I'd laid out closing arguments — no apologies, no excuses, just facts stacked in order. The documents that went out. The clawback notice already filed. The revised protocol so it never happened again. I watched his face while I talked, waiting for the moment he'd push, the moment he'd ask why a firm as prestigious as Henderson & Wright let a summer associate near anything sensitive at all.

He didn't ask. He just listened, turning his wine glass slowly by the stem.

"You didn't send those documents," he said finally.

"No."

"But you're the one sitting across from me at ten p.m. fixing it."

"That's the job."

"That's not the job. That's you." He said it plainly, no charm in it, which somehow made it land harder than if he'd tried. "I remember you in Con Law. First to raise your hand, last to leave the room. Everyone else was performing for Halloran. You were actually trying to get it right."

I felt something loosen in my chest, some knot I hadn't noticed I'd been carrying since Friday. "That was a long time ago."

"You haven't changed much." He refilled my glass without asking, which should have annoyed me and didn't. "The merger's still moving forward, by the way. My board isn't thrilled, but they're not walking. Consider that a professional courtesy."

"Consider it appreciated."

We talked longer than we needed to. About nothing that mattered to the case — his sister's wedding, my terrible new associate, the fact that neither of us had eaten a real meal since Thursday. It was easy in a way dinners with Simon had never been easy, even in the beginning. Nobody was performing. Nobody was checking their phone under the table.

Outside, the air had that wet cold that promises snow and never delivers. Calvin walked me to the cab stand, held the door while I climbed in.

"You're wasted over there, Jade." He said it low, almost to himself. Then he shut the door and stepped back before I could answer.

I thought about it the whole ride home. I was still thinking about it when I fell asleep at one in the morning, and I was still thinking about it, four hours later, when my alarm went off.

Simon's office door was already shut when I got the summons. Blinds angled. Not a good sign.

"Sit," he said.

"I'll stand."

He came around the desk instead of behind it, arms crossed. "You had dinner with Calvin Reyes last night."

"I had a client management dinner with opposing counsel's principal, because your intern leaked privileged documents to his firm." I kept my voice flat. "You're welcome, by the way."

"You understand how this looks." He wasn't listening. "You, alone, with him, while we're in active litigation."

"How it looks to who?"

"To me."

The word sat there between us, ugly and small.

"You don't get to question my integrity," I said, "when you can't even manage your own intern."

His jaw went tight. "This isn't about Aylani."

"It's always about Aylani." I heard my own voice rise for the first time in longer than I could remember. "You gave her two extra days on a task I could do in my sleep. You overrode me in front of the entire team. And now you're standing here asking me about my integrity because I did my job and cleaned up her mess over dinner?"

"Lower your voice."

"No." I didn't. "You want to talk about how things look? Let's talk about how it looks when a senior partner fetches coffee for a summer associate every single morning. Let's talk about how that looks."

His face went white, then red. "That is not the same thing."

"It's exactly the same thing."

Through the glass, I saw Derek Shaw slow his pace in the hallway, a stack of files clutched to his chest, eyes carefully forward and ears very much not. Simon saw him too. His voice dropped, but the words didn't get any softer.

"We are done with this conversation."

"We've been done for a while," I said, and walked out before he could see that my hands were shaking.

The silence in the office had weight to it now, the kind of weight that makes the air feel thicker when you breathe. Three days had passed since my argument with Simon, and the litigation floor had become a battlefield of unspoken hostilities. I could feel it in the way conversations stopped when I entered a room, in the careful neutrality of the associates' faces when they passed me in the hallway. Derek Shaw, who used to stop by my office to discuss case strategy, now sent emails instead. Even the paralegals had learned to avoid the crossfire.

Simon's assistant, Melissa, had become our intermediary. 'Mr. Wright asked me to inform you that the Westfield deposition has been moved to Thursday,' she'd say, standing in my doorway like a messenger who knew she was delivering news that might explode. Or: 'He needs the revised brief by end of day, not tomorrow morning as discussed.' Never his voice, never his face. Just Melissa, carrying words back and forth like a diplomatic envoy between two hostile nations.

Aylani, meanwhile, had adopted a new strategy. Every email she sent me now included Simon in the recipient line. 'Jade, per our discussion, I've attached the updated exhibit list. CC: Simon Wright.' 'Jade, I had a question about the formatting on the witness statements. CC: Simon Wright.' It was a small thing, a technical courtesy that somehow felt like a declaration of war. She wasn't just reporting to him; she was performing her loyalty for him to see.

I didn't respond to any of it. Not the emails, not the whispers that followed me down the hallway. I simply continued doing my job with the same precision I'd always brought to it, and I continued documenting everything. Every misfiled document. Every missed deadline. Every unauthorized change to a brief that had to be corrected at the last minute. I wasn't building a case against her—not yet. I was just collecting facts, the way I always did before I knew what the argument would be.

On Thursday evening, I stayed late. The office had that particular quiet that comes after seven, when most people have gone home and the cleaning crew hasn't arrived yet. I was reviewing the Westfield deposition transcripts, searching for inconsistencies in the CFO's testimony, when I heard laughter from the direction of the main conference room.

I looked up. Through the glass walls, I could see them—Simon and Aylani, still in their work clothes but with their jackets off, sitting close together at the far end of the long table. A bottle of wine stood between them, two glasses catching the light from the desk lamp they'd switched on. Aylani was saying something, her hands moving in that expressive way she had, and Simon was watching her face with an intensity I recognized because I'd seen it in my own reflection when I used to catch him looking at me.

She laughed again, tossing her head back, and when she reached for her glass, her hand brushed against his forearm. It was a small touch, casual, but Simon didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in closer, saying something that made her laugh harder, her eyes never leaving his face.

I stood in the corridor outside the conference room, my deposition notes still in my hand, watching them through the glass like they were characters in a play I'd seen before. I watched for perhaps three seconds. No more. Then I turned and walked back to my office, closed the door behind me, and sat in the dark.

I didn't cry. I never cried at work. Instead, I opened my laptop, navigated to the private folder I'd been building for weeks, and added a new entry. Just a timestamp, just a note: *7:42 PM, conference room, unauthorized alcohol on firm premises, inappropriate physical contact.* It wasn't personal. It was just evidence. Evidence I was collecting, methodically and without emotion, the way I always prepared for a case I intended to win.

I sat in the dark a long time, my fingers resting on the keyboard, listening to the building settle around me. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear the janitor's cart rattling down a hallway. Somewhere closer, I could hear my own breathing, steady and controlled. I didn't feel broken. I felt focused. The way I felt before a trial, when everything narrowed down to just the facts, just the strategy, just the win.

I closed the laptop and turned on the light. The office looked the same as it had an hour ago, but something had shifted. Something fundamental. I wasn't just documenting anymore. I was preparing.

The war room smelled like old paper and stale coffee. I stood at the long table, running my finger down the exhibit log for the third time, checking each entry against the physical files stacked in neat rows across the surface. The Westfield hearing was twelve hours away. Everything had to be perfect.

Exhibit A-1 through A-47: discovery documents, properly tabbed. Exhibit B series: email chains, highlighted and cross-referenced. Exhibit C-1: the signed merger agreement, dated March 15, 2019, bearing both parties' original signatures in blue ink. The contract that proved our client's position beyond any reasonable doubt. The contract that made this hearing a formality instead of a fight.

I pulled it from the file and held it up to the light, checking for the watermark one last time. Perfect. I slipped it back into its protective sleeve, returned it to the C series folder, and placed the folder in the center of the table where it would be immediately visible tomorrow morning.

The clock on the wall read 11:47 p.m. I'd been here since seven. My eyes burned. My shoulders ached. But the war room was ready. Every document accounted for, every argument supported, every contingency planned.

I turned off the lights and locked the door behind me. The hallway security camera's red light blinked steadily above the doorframe, the way it always did. I didn't think anything of it then.

I should have.

The courthouse was cold the way courthouses are always cold, like they keep the temperature low to remind everyone that justice doesn't care about comfort. I arrived at six a.m., two hours before the hearing, carrying my litigation bag and a cardboard tray with three coffees—one for me, two for the associates who'd meet me there.

The war room door was unlocked.

I stopped in the doorway. I'd locked it. I remembered locking it, remembered testing the handle twice because that's what I always did. But now the door stood slightly ajar, the overhead lights already on.

I set down the coffees and stepped inside.

The files looked the same. The exhibit log sat where I'd left it, my handwriting neat across the top page. The folders were stacked in the same order. But something felt wrong. The air felt wrong. Like someone had been here, moving carefully, trying not to disturb anything but disturbing everything anyway.

I went straight to the C series folder.

Exhibit C-1 was gone.

I checked the folder twice. Then I checked the folders on either side. Then I pulled every single file off the table and went through them one by one, my hands moving faster, my breath coming shorter. I checked the boxes underneath the table. I checked the filing cabinet against the wall. I checked the recycling bin, the printer tray, the shelf by the door where someone might have set it down meaning to return it.

Forty minutes. I searched for forty minutes while the clock ticked toward our court time and my phone buzzed with texts from the associates asking where I was.

The contract was gone.

I stood in the center of the war room, surrounded by files I'd torn apart and reassembled, and felt something cold settle in my chest. Not panic. I didn't have time for panic. Just a clear, terrible understanding that someone had taken it. Someone had come into this room after I left and removed the single most important piece of evidence in our case.

I pulled out my phone and called Simon. Straight to voicemail. I tried again. Voicemail. I sent a text: *C-1 missing. Need to discuss before court.*

No response.

I gathered what remained, repacked my litigation bag, and headed to the courthouse. I had an hour to rebuild an argument that had just lost its foundation.

The hearing went exactly as badly as I knew it would. I stood before Judge Hartley and argued procedural history, argued reliance, argued every piece of circumstantial evidence we had. I was good. I was better than good. But I was arguing without the signed contract, and opposing counsel knew it. He smiled when he stood to respond, the kind of smile that said he'd already won before he'd spoken a word.

"Your Honor, the plaintiff has failed to produce the original signed agreement. We've seen only copies, which my client disputes. Without the original, there's simply no evidence that the terms plaintiff alleges were ever actually agreed upon."

Judge Hartley looked at me over her reading glasses. "Ms. Collins, do you have the original contract?"

"Your Honor, we had it as of last night. There's been an issue with our case files that we're currently—"

"Do you have it now?"

The courtroom was very quiet.

"No, Your Honor."

She didn't hesitate. "Motion granted. We're adjourned."

I walked out of the courthouse into morning sunlight that felt too bright, too normal. My phone was already ringing. The client. Then Simon's assistant. Then Raymond Black's direct line.

I didn't answer any of them. I stood on the courthouse steps and pulled out my own phone, opened my private folder, and typed a new entry: *Exhibit C-1 missing as of 6 AM. War room door unlocked despite personal confirmation of lock at 11:47 PM previous night. Only person with after-hours access and motive: A.V.*

Then I called the building's security office.

"Hi, this is Jade Collins from Henderson & Wright. I need to request footage from the fourteenth-floor war room camera. Last night, between midnight and six a.m. Yes, I'll hold."

I wasn't guessing anymore. I was building a case. And this time, I was going to win it.