My eyes, usually calm, blazed for a split second before I forced them back into place. I am too pretty and too well-educated for this shit.
The thought was a bitter balm, a silent roar echoing inside my skull. I was standing in a room full of dogs calling themselves men, and I had to play along. The rules of this game, this workplace, were written by them, enforced by their subtle menace and casual cruelty.
I nodded once, precise.
Bremmer, pleased, poured the spirit—a clear liquid that shimmered under the warm light. I picked up the glass. The cool crystal was a stark contrast to the burning heat in my chest. I met his gaze first, then the judge's watery blue stare, the fox-eyed partner's leer, the female barrister's smug grin. I am ashamed of her.
I cataloged them all, one by one, like exhibits for a trial.
Then, in one smooth motion, I lifted the glass. I didn't flinch; the crystal rim touched my lips. My gaze remained unwavering, daring them to flinch.
But I didn't drink.
Instead, I tilted my head ever so slightly, examining the amber liquid within with studied interest. "What is this, exactly?" I asked, my voice calm, almost detached. The silence that followed was immediate and thick, a suffocating velvet curtain dropped over the previous cacophony.
Bremmer, momentarily flustered, stammered, "Uh, it's… it's a special reserve aquavit. From Norway. Supposed to be quite exquisite."
"Aquavit," I repeated, drawing out the word. "Interesting. I've always preferred something with a bit more… bite. Something that lingers, reminds you of the experience long after it's gone." I paused, allowing the words to hang in the air. "Tell me, Bremmer, does this aquavit linger?"
He started to answer, but I cut him off with a delicate wave of my hand. "Never mind. I think I have a better idea."
With deliberate slowness, I rose from my chair. The scraping sound was amplified in the sudden quiet. Every eye in the upper ring followed my movements. I held the glass of aquavit out, then with a swift, decisive flick of my wrist, I tossed the contents onto Bremmer's face.
The spirit splashed across his features in a sudden, blinding arch, some of it soaking into his expensive silk tie. He yelped, recoiling as if physically scorched. For a moment, he sat there, stunned, staring at the wet streaks on his skin.
Silence reigned. The other partners at the table stared, mouths agape, as if they'd witnessed a thunderbolt strike. I didn't move, didn't waver. My heart thundered in my chest, but my face remained a mask of calm indifference.
Then, the laughter started. It began as a hesitant, incredulous chuckle, but soon escalated into guffaws and whoops. Richard Cobb, the senior partner known for his outbursts, pounded the table in delight. "My God, Ivelle! What a marvelous display of... panache!" He wiped tears from his eyes, still chuckling.
Bremmer, however, was not amused. His face twisted into a scowl as he dabbed at the spirit with his napkin, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell do you think you're doing, Ivelle?"
I should've apologized, made some excuse. But the words that left my mouth were the complete opposite.
I tilted my head, this time with a genuine smile playing on my lips. Not the brittle, expected curve from earlier, but something colder, sharper—like the edge of a scalpel held to light. "Apologies, Derek," I said, the familiar address now laced with deliberate, glacial emphasis. "But you did ask if I was angry. And since we're all sharing professional milestones…" I let the word hang, heavy with irony, "...it seemed only fitting to demonstrate my expertise in rebuttal tactics. You see," I continued, my voice dropping to the low, precise cadence I used when cross-examining hostile witnesses, "in my line of work, when someone offers you a substance you haven't verified, you don't consume it. You test it. You assess its properties. You determine whether it's… safe." My gaze flicked to Bremmer's damp collar, then back to his stunned face. "This aquavit? It lacks bite. It evaporates too quickly. Leaves no real evidence of its passage. Almost… disposable."
"How dare you say that to me."
"How dare you raise your voice at me!" I countered.
"Ivelle!"
"Derek."
He flinched at the sharpness of my tone, taken aback by the sudden shift in the balance of power. His face reddened, a vein pulsing at his temple. "You—you insolent wench—"
I leaned forward, my jaw tight, my gaze like a dagger. "Don't you dare call me that."
A few men at the table shifted uneasily at the sudden tension, but Bremmer only grew more angry. His face turned an ugly shade of red as he stabbed a finger at me. "You think you can speak to me like that?" he growled. "I've been a partner at this firm for over twenty years. I've made this firm what it is today. Who do you think you are—"
"I think I'm the woman who's won more court cases in the past year than you have in your entire career," I retorted, my voice as cool and unyielding as ice.
Bremmer flinched again, a muscle in his jaw jumping. His ego, already bruised, was now under full assault, and it was making him reckless. "You—" he sputtered, "You wouldn't even be here if it weren't for me. You wouldn't have gotten your partnership if I hadn't championed you. You should show a little gratitude—"
It clicked then. This man, with his under six-feet frame, was acting like a petulant child, making noise like a rat trying to compete with a lion. I bit back a smirk, realizing the absurdity of the situation. Why had I even entertained his juvenile behavior? I wasn't about to waste my time or energy arguing with a man who was clearly beneath me, both figuratively and literally. A sense of composure washed over me, and I sat back, silently amused, as he continued to babble on.
As the situation escalated, the atmosphere in the room grew tense. Bremmer, visibly flustered, continued to protest and bark at me, but I remained calm and unbothered. The senior partner, seeing the tension rising, intervened. "Derek, that's enough. Calm down and take a seat." Bremmer, realizing he was not winning this battle, huffed and collected his belongings before storming out of the room in a huff. The remaining partners and barristers exchanged glances, some bewildered, others amused by the unexpected turn of events.
About an hour later, everything had simmered back to normal, some of them were already drunk. Thankfully, they stopped poking me after the interaction with Derek and I had luxury to drink and enjoy myself.
My mind drifted to two years ago, when I still thought my ex-husband was the moon and the stars.
I hated the way he had used me, manipulated me, stripping away my confidence piece by piece. At the time, I had believed his lies, his sweet words masking a venomous core. I built my world around him, sacrificing ambitions, friendships, even my own sense of self for our marriage. And then, when I had nothing left to give, he discarded me like a broken toy.
The memory of that betrayal, once a gaping wound, had slowly calloused over, leaving a scar that twinged in moments like this—when I was surrounded by hollow camaraderie and the performative affection of people who saw me as nothing more than a reflection of their own success.
But yet.
I still found myself longing for him every single day. Not for the man he had been, but for the ghost of the man I'd believed him to be. The architect of my dreams, who had casually taken a wrecking ball to the entire structure.
I laughed. A dry, brittle sound, scraping against my throat. Why was I even thinking of him now? The ghost of that particular ache was an unwelcome guest at this already unbearable feast.
The fantasy returned—not of a gun this time, but of something far more primal. A different kind of fire. The memory of a touch that was rough and honest, not laden with condescending pity or predatory suggestion. I hadn't felt skin against mine in over a year—not since I had finally gathered the splinters of my courage and left the gilded cage of my marriage. My ex-husband's touch had become control, possession, then violence. I craved something that felt nothing like that. I craved a touch that would scour me clean of this night, of them, of him.
I wanted to feel something else. Anything else. Or maybe my body has its own agenda tonight.
As the evening wore on, I found myself checking my watch for what felt like the hundredth time. The dinner had dragged on, the conversation devolving into a messy, drunken blur. I was relieved when the check finally came and the group began to disperse. The cool night air was a welcome respite as I stepped out of the restaurant, stretching my arms over my head.
The night air was balm, cool and crisp against my skin. I inhaled deeply, reveling in the sweet taste of freedom. The restaurant, with its polished veneer and insincere smiles, felt a million miles away. I stretched, a little— and then my gaze fell upon a figure silhouetted against the dim streetlamp.