The Devil You Know (The Devils #3)(52)

“With all due respect, Arvin,” Ben says, his mouth a grim line, “Gemma’s got more family law experience than the rest of us combined. It would help to have her in on this too.”

“Gemma was given two shots at a very lucrative job, which has now gone to another firm,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be happy to assist Craig if necessary.”

There is no chance Natalie Brenner will hire Craig. None. Which means Fields figured she wasn’t going to hire us anyway, and is simply doing this to humiliate me, to let me know I’m not forgiven for what happened with Webber.

What exactly did I do wrong, aside from refusing to sleep my way into a job? Nothing, but that’s all it takes. Men will vilify you for enjoying sex, and they’ll vilify you for using it to get ahead…but they’ll punish you if you don’t enjoy it, if you don't use it to get ahead.

There should be more choices left to me than either slut or prude. And I wonder if I’m going to have to leave this firm entirely to be allowed to choose one.





Ben is angrier about the situation than I am.

“I don’t understand why you stay,” he says the minute he walks into my apartment that night. “This is hardly the first time he’s been an asshole to you.”

“I want to make partner,” I say, dousing my pad Thai in siracha. “Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Why do you want it so badly?” He looks around us. “You don’t seem to spend much, aside from the shoes.”

“Because of bullshit like today,” I reply, my voice sharp as a new wave of anger rolls over me. “There was nothing you could have done, but there needs to be a woman in the room to keep this stuff from happening in the first place. If there’d been a single female partner at FMG, I’d probably have told her about the first incident with Webber. And I’m tired of having to listen to Fields when he tells me I can’t do pro bono work or tries to whore me out to a client. I want a say, and nothing else can matter until I get it.”

I see a glimmer of doubt in his eyes, as if he suspects there’s more to the story—which there is, of course. I’m relieved he doesn’t persist. “If we’re going to keep doing this,” he says instead, “we should probably go to HR.”

Technically, we are supposed to sign a consensual relationship agreement, indemnifying FMG from any issues that arise because we, as colleagues, are dating.

Technically, the failure to do this is also why I lost my last job.

Except this thing with Ben is temporary. “Is that really necessary?” I ask.

His smile is half-hearted. “Ah, right. You want the widowed veteran instead.”

He’s only in boxers, so it takes me a second to remember I have no desire to end up with Ben Tate, that somewhere out in the world my future husband is still waiting for me to hit rock bottom and change everything about myself. For the first time, the idea of it makes me sad, rather than hopeful.

“Veterinarian, and he doesn’t have to be widowed, just so we’re clear.” I hand him chopsticks. “I’d prefer he not be because people always glorify the dead, so he’d probably always secretly be like my first wife was so much better, and I’d have no clue he chose to be buried with her instead of me until he died. So, yeah, fuck that. No widowers. I guess I didn’t think that through.”

“You didn’t think a lot of it through,” he mutters. “And how is this guy supposed to surprise you with this Iceland proposal? It’s not like it’s a daytrip. And how’s he supposed to get a children’s choir there? Does he have relatives in Iceland who work at a school?”

“That’s his problem,” I reply, stirring the noodles with the end of my chopsticks. “I planned the proposal; if he can’t even propose without me lining up the music, well—” I throw out my arms, as if to say, “obviously it won’t work.”

“Is this a good time to point out you’d hate living in a small town? Where will you get your açai bowl?”

“I didn’t say a town off the side of a highway. I meant a charming town. There will be loads of açai places there.”

He raises a brow, but what does he know about small towns? He grew up in fucking Newport. “And what will you do during your free time? Because I presume that, once married and living in this small town, you will no longer be working twelve-hour days?”

I’m not sure why he’s persisting with this line of questioning. My future plans feel forced now, a little joyless, like New Year’s resolutions I wish I hadn’t made.

“We’ll go on walks. We’ll pick apples. We’ll go to our favorite cafe, where a well-intentioned but nosy proprietor checks on us too frequently and tells us about her grandchildren.”

“You hate hearing about people’s grandchildren.”

“Yes, people here, because their grandchildren are boring. Carol’s will be mischievous scamps who call me Aunt Gemma and want to sit on my lap.”

He leans back in his seat. “Who’s Carol?”

“The proprietor of the cafe. Keep up, Ben.”

He smiles, and this time it’s less strained than it was. I’m weirdly pleased by that.

“Okay, so you and your veterinarian husband will pick apples, which are only in season for a matter of weeks.” He refills my wine. “I think you’re going to have to come up with a few more activities in that small town of yours or you’ll die of boredom.”