The Trial Run

I should've known better than to open my work inbox before finishing my tea.

It's barely 9:30, the steam still curling from my mug, and already Monday has teeth.

I'm sitting at my desk in my tiny, over-warmed office, still wearing my coat. The bagel I brought from home is sitting in a glass container, untouched. The inbox refreshes automatically, and there it is-the email-staring at me like it owns the place.

I'll be sending a calendar invite this afternoon. We can discuss scope and timeline then.

I blink, and audibly sigh in my office.

Of course.

What a douche. It's the first direct conversation I've ever had with him, and it's a reassignment. It's not a request, but a decision.

I lean back in my chair and stare out the window. The city outside is coated in a crisp amber glow, soft edges of gold curling at the corners of the buildings. This type of morning should come with a scarf and cinnamon-something in a paper cup.

Not this. And not him.

All I know of Bennett Harrington is whispered office gossip and Outlook headers. He's the kind of partner who keeps to himself. Doesn't linger. Doesn't schmooze. Works late. Doesn't smile in the break room. Not rude, exactly-just serious. Focused. Quiet in a way that makes you feel like you're somehow being too loud without even speaking.

And now, apparently, very desperate.

I glance down at the email again.

It's not mean. I'll give him that. He even tried to soften it. But it's still an order. And something about that makes my skin itch.

There are at least five litigation associates who would leap at the chance to prove themselves to Bennett Harrington. The loud ones who interrupt each other in the break room. The ones who act like trial prep is a competitive sport. But instead, he picks me . . . the estate planning associate who barely makes eye contact to secretaries in the hallway.

I let the email sit for another full minute before clicking Reply.

My fingers hover over the keys. I think about saying no again. About reminding him I'm not in his department. About sending a list of those overeager litigators who would kill to be pulled into one of his cases.

But instead, I type:

From: Margot Rowe
Sent: Monday, 9:22 AM
To: Bennett Harrington
Subject: Re: Trial Support

Understood. Send the materials when you're ready.

- M

I hit send. And immediately regret it. But also-don't.

Because the faster I get through this, the faster I can get back to work that doesn't involve someone else's fire.

I close the email tab, push my tea aside, and pull out my headphones. If I'm going to be dragged into trial prep, I'm doing it with lo-fi beats and maximum emotional detachment.

The calendar notification dings five minutes later.

I never accept the invite, but I know that I'll show. I need to keep Mr. Harrington on his toes.