Chapter 41
Lena's POV
Over the next few days, I started researching Diana Clarke.
Not invasive digging—just public records. Court filings, news articles, industry forums. I pieced together her story bit by bit.
Three years ago, Diana had been a rising star at Blackwood & Associates, one of Silverton's top firms. Commercial litigation specialist. 85% win rate. Client list full of Fortune 500 companies.
Then a junior associate came to her.
Jessica Martinez. Twenty-two. Fresh out of law school. She'd been assaulted by a senior partner during late-night work sessions. He'd threatened to destroy her career if she reported him.
Diana believed her.
She went to the police with Jessica. Helped gather evidence. Paid out of pocket for trauma counseling.
The firm's response: bury it.
They offered Jessica a severance package in exchange for an NDA and resignation.
Diana refused.
"If we don't speak up now," she'd told the managing partners, "who's next?"
So she sued the senior partner. And she sued Blackwood & Associates—for enabling harassment and maintaining a hostile work environment.
The case dragged on for eighteen months.
Diana won.
Jessica got her settlement. The senior partner lost his license.
But Diana lost everything else.
---
I found a thread about her on a legal industry forum.
Title: "Diana Clarke—A Cautionary Tale in Career Suicide"
Most comments were from anonymous lawyers:
> "She torched her own career. For an intern. Was it worth it?"
> "Blackwood blacklisted her. No major firm will touch her now."
> "Too idealistic. This industry doesn't reward martyrs."
> "Heard she's scraping by on small cases now. Makes a fraction of what she used to."
The anger rose in my chest as I scrolled.
These people treated her courage like stupidity. Her integrity like a character flaw.
But there were a few dissenting voices:
> "Diana's the most honest lawyer I've ever met. We need more people like her."
> "She helped my sister pro bono when no one else would. She actually cares about victims, not just fees."
I closed my laptop and sat in the dark study.
I have to meet her.
---
The next day, I went to Diana's office.
The address led to an aging building on the edge of downtown—far from the financial district. The elevator doors were rusted. Hallway lights flickered.
I found her door: "Diana Clarke, Attorney at Law."
I knocked.
No answer.
I waited, about to leave, when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
A young woman appeared, arms full of file folders. She saw me and froze.
"Hi," I said. "I'm looking for Ms. Clarke."
The woman studied me, eyes narrowing. "She's not here. Who are you?"
I handed her my card. "Lena Grant. I'm a lawyer. I wanted to discuss a potential partnership."
She glanced at the card. Her expression hardened.
"Madison & Partners," she said, voice cold.
"Former Madison & Partners," I corrected. "I resigned."
"So?" The woman's tone turned hostile. "You big firm people are all the same. Diana helped one of your colleagues once—and that lawyer turned around and trashed her reputation in court, called her 'unprofessional' and 'emotionally unstable.'"
I went still.
"Diana's the best lawyer I've ever seen," the woman continued. "She won my labor dispute and didn't charge me a cent. But people like you just use her, then stab her in the back."
She shoved my card back at me.
"Leave. Diana doesn't need your so-called partnership."
The door slammed.
I stood in the dim hallway, staring at my business card.
That lawyer she mentioned—was he from Madison?
I pulled out my phone and started searching.
Thirty minutes later, I had my answer.
Two years ago, Diana had represented a client in a labor dispute. Opposing counsel: Brett Morrison from Madison & Partners.
The same Brett who'd sabotaged my Whitmore contract.
Court transcripts showed Brett had attacked Diana's professionalism during arguments, insinuating she was "emotionally compromised" and "biased toward the underdog." He'd questioned her mental stability on record.
Diana won that case.
But Brett's smears spread through the industry, damaging her reputation further.
I gripped my phone.
Brett Morrison. Of course it was him.
---
When I returned to Lakeview Estate that evening, it was past eight.
The house was quiet. The living room lights were on, but no one was there. As I climbed the stairs, I noticed Rowan's study door half-open, the sound of keyboard clicks drifting out.
I knocked on the doorframe.
"Come in." His voice was calm.
I pushed the door open. He sat behind his desk, several documents spread before him, a financial report glowing on his laptop screen. He looked up, and something complicated flickered in his eyes when he saw me.
"I want to discuss the divorce arrangements," I said directly.
His fingers stilled on the keyboard, then slowly withdrew. "Alright."
"The contract expires three weeks from Friday," I said. "We can go to the courthouse that day and file the dissolution of marriage petition. The process is straightforward—forms, signatures, waiting for the judge's approval. With no property disputes or custody issues, we should have the final decree in about six weeks."
He stared at me, silent.
"Do you agree?" I asked.
"I agree." His voice was low. "We'll do it your way."
I nodded and turned to leave.
"Lena."
He stopped me.
I paused, looking back.
"I heard you're starting a firm," he said, his fingers tapping the desk lightly. "I know some people. I could make introductions."
"That's not necessary," my tone stayed even. "I want to do this on my own."
He frowned. "This isn't about doing it on your own. In this industry, connections matter—"
"I know," I interrupted. "But I don't want to owe anyone favors. Including you."
His jaw tightened.
"Also," he continued, "the Reynolds Industries European expansion still needs legal support. You could continue leading it—"
"Get Nora."
"What?"
"Nora Kane," I repeated, my voice flat. "She's the project lead now, isn't she? Wouldn't that suit you perfectly?"
His eyes darkened. "Lena, Nora doesn't have the qualifications for that project. You know that."
"That's not my concern."
"I never intended for her to replace you," his voice turned urgent. "I was only—"
"Rowan," I cut him off. "Our contract expires in three weeks. After that, your projects have nothing to do with me."
He stared at me, his expression unreadable.
Finally, he just said, "Fine. Understood."
I turned and left, closing the study door behind me.