Chapter 49
Lena's POV
Saturday afternoon, Eleanor showed up with her laptop and a leather portfolio that looked like it had survived several wars.
"I brought everything," she said, setting up at the conference table. "Emails, spreadsheets, even my notes from client calls."
For the next three hours, we reconstructed the entire timeline. When she'd received the assignment. What the client had actually asked for. The data she'd collected, the sources she'd verified, the preliminary draft, the client's feedback, the final version.
Every single step was documented.
"Your work is airtight," I said finally, leaning back in my chair. "Crane's argument doesn't have a leg to stand on."
She rubbed her temples. "He's good in court, though. He'll bury the jury in jargon until they think I'm incompetent."
"Then we make it simple. We'll prepare a point-by-point rebuttal. If he wants expert witnesses, we'll get our own."
"Why are you doing this?"
The question caught me off guard. "What?"
"This case." She gestured at the files spread across the table. "The fee isn't huge. Crane's firm will make your life hell if you fight them too hard. So why?"
I met her eyes. "Because you're right. And I don't do settlements that bury the truth."
Something shifted in her expression—like she'd been braced for disappointment and didn't know what to do when it didn't come.
"I was worried I'd picked the wrong lawyer," she said quietly. "Guess my luck's better than I thought."
---
The next few days blurred together. Rachel helped organize documents, but the legal heavy lifting—the research, the strategy, the drafting—that was all me.
Tuesday night, almost eight o'clock, my phone buzzed.
Eleanor: [Still at the office? I ordered way too much Chinese food. Can I bring some by?]
I should have said no. Should have maintained professional boundaries. But Rachel had left an hour ago, and I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten anything that wasn't coffee.
[Yes. That's perfect.]
Twenty minutes later, Eleanor appeared with two large bags that smelled incredible.
"You didn't have to come all the way here," I said, but I was already clearing space on the conference table.
"I was nearby anyway." She started unpacking containers. "Plus I wanted to see how the rebuttal's coming along."
I handed her the draft I'd been working on. She read in silence, occasionally nodding, sometimes making small marks with her pen.
"This section on contingent liabilities is perfect," she said. "But here—the market risk assessment part—Crane's going to attack this. We need to strengthen it."
She was right. I pulled the document back and started revising while she opened the food.
For the next two hours, we worked through every potential weakness, every argument Crane might make, every piece of evidence we needed to counter it. The lo mein got cold. Neither of us cared.
"You always work this late?" she asked at some point.
I glanced up from my laptop. "When it matters."
"Most lawyers I've worked with just count billable hours." She was watching me with an odd expression. "You're different."
I didn't know what to say to that, so I just went back to typing.
"Lena."
Something in her tone made me stop.
"Thank you," she said. "Really."
"Don't thank me yet. We haven't won."
"No, but you made me feel like this is worth fighting for. That I'm worth fighting for." Her voice got quiet. "That matters."
I looked down at my keyboard, suddenly uncomfortable with the weight of her gratitude. "We should finish this section before it gets too late."
She smiled—soft, understanding—and let it drop.
---
After that night, things shifted. Eleanor started texting more often. Not just about the case, but checking in. Asking if I needed anything. Offering to grab coffee before our meetings.
Thursday afternoon, we met at her office to prep for the mediation hearing. Her space was surprisingly minimal—just a desk, a laptop, and one small succulent in a ceramic pot.
"Your office is cleaner than mine," I said.
"I don't like clutter. If something's important, I keep it up here." She tapped her temple, smiling.
I almost smiled back.
"Can I ask you something personal?" she said suddenly.
My guard went up automatically. "What?"
"Why did you really leave Madison & Partners? I heard you were doing well there."
The question landed like a weight in my chest. I looked at the contract draft on the table between us, buying time.
"Because what they valued and what I valued weren't the same thing," I said finally. "I wasn't willing to compromise my principles for their version of success."
"That takes guts."
"So does coming to a small firm for help instead of settling."
She laughed softly. "Yeah, well. Now half the industry thinks I'm difficult."
"Their problem. Not yours."
She studied me for a moment, something unreadable in her expression. "Working with you… it makes this whole thing feel less lonely."
I didn't know how to respond to that. Didn't know if I should.
So I just nodded and went back to the contract, feeling her gaze linger for a moment before she did the same.
By the time I drove home that night, exhaustion was pulling at my bones. But underneath it, there was something else.
A sense of purpose, maybe. Or just the simple satisfaction of doing work that actually meant something.
I thought about Eleanor's words: You made me feel like I'm worth fighting for.