I watched the tablet fizz in the glass of water as my stomach made an unsettling noise. It wasn’t a hangover; it was an ulcer in the making. I had warded them off before and I hoped I didn’t have to go back to the doctor again.

I guess Indian food is out of the question for lunch, I thought wryly. Not that I ever wanted to eat Indian food but knowing that it was off limits somehow made it more appealing.

My stomach snarled again, and I silently apologized to it for the joke.

“Mr. Archer, Sarah Miller is on line one and Avery Carlissi is on line three.”

I groaned aloud and rolled my eyes before snatching up the phone.

“Take messages on both and hold all my calls until eleven,” I told Abby, glancing at my desk calendar. I stifled yet another grunt of agony as I realized what I had in store for me that day.

“Actually, hold all my calls until after lunch.”

“Yes, Mr. Archer,” Abby chirped back, and I wondered, not for the first time, if she got a kick out of dealing with the angry souls who endlessly called the offices.

She always sounded so damned happy when I told her to brush off the clients as if she thrived for the moment that she could feed someone more bad news.

I was probably imagining things, living vicariously through someone who might be happy in the realm of misery I called work.

Eyeing the glass of antacid warily, I picked it up and choked it back before I could change my mind, gagging on the liquid slightly before placing the empty glass on the desktop.

It was only Monday.

I flopped into my leather swivel chair and turned to the computer, trying to get my mind in order to face the week.

A knock on the door proved to be a happy distraction and I turned my attention to the doorframe expectantly.

“Come in!” I called, and Vern stuck his head inside.

It was comforting to see that he seemed as frazzled as I felt most days but of course I made no comment to his disheveled hair and raccoon eyes barely hidden behind his glasses.

He resembled a man doing the walk of shame home after a spotty Friday night in the city.

I tried to envision Vern drunk and the thought terrified me for some reason.

“You busy, Drave?” he asked, and I did not comment on the inane nature of the question.

Am I busy? I’m a junior partner. Of course, I’m busy.

But Vern was a senior partner. I was never too busy for him even though the world was constantly falling apart around me.

“Nope,” I lied, sitting back and exhaling as the Alker Seltzer did its magic in my stomach. “What’s up?”

“Do you know Ryerson Sterling?” he asked, and I was beginning to wonder if today was going to be ridiculous inquiry day.

If so, I didn’t get the memo.

Ryerson Sterling was likely the richest man in our part of North Carolina, a self-made billionaire with half a dozen media companies under his umbrella corporation.

I think our firm had been advertising with his stations and papers for twenty years minimally, never mind the corporate and tax accounts we had been bequeathed on his behalf.

Sterling was the closest thing to royalty New Bern had ever seen.

Still, I maintained the easy expression on my face and nodded simply.

“Of course,” I replied. “I would wager that anyone over the age of twenty-five knows who Ryerson Sterling is.”

Vern sauntered into spacious inner office and gingerly sat on the edge of a modern chic chair facing me.

He sighed heavily, and I arched an eyebrow in curiosity.

“What happened?” I demanded. “Did he kick the bucket?”

Vern’s brow knit, and he scowled slightly, shaking his head.

“It’s worse,” he replied. “His wife has filed for a divorce.”

I almost shrugged indifferently but I caught myself.

Another celebrity divorce? What’s the big deal? It happened once every sixty seconds, even in our quiet town.

I decided to voice my question.

“Why do you look so pained?” I asked and if possible, Vern appeared even more glum, his somber face becoming a mask of stone.

“Because Angeline Sterling has retained us to handle it.”

Suddenly I understood the problem.

Our firm handled most avenues of law from corporate to criminal and everything in between. The term was “full-service” law firm although I always found the name a little cheap.

It was not hard to foresee that with such clients came an entirely different spectrum of the field; divorces.

That was where was I came in.

I, along with half a dozen other associates, handled the cutthroat business of splitting up assets and division of property for those who wished to be rid of their significant others.

It wasn’t a glamorous job, but someone had to do it.

Not to mention the commissions afforded me luxuries a boy from Newark could only have dreamed of from the trailer park fold out bed which had been mine until college.

And now it seemed, I had the daunting task of fighting with one of our longest standing clients.

“You can’t entertain the idea of representing Angeline,” I gasped. “Ryerson is our client.”

Vern shook his head mournfully, his puppy dog eyes growing sadder.

“Actually,” he corrected me. “They are both our clients. Angeline’s family has been with the firm longer than Ryerson. They have always seemed like a packaged deal to you but the Voigts were here well before Sterling.”

My stomach jeered at me again.

“Does he know that she’s jumped in and hired us yet?” I asked, hoping to see some way out of the potential mess.

“I have no idea,” Vern sighed. “And it would be a conflict of interest to tell him anything.”

I knew he was right, but I also knew that Ryerson Sterling was not apt to take the news kindly.

No matter what history his soon-to-be ex-wife had with Kirkpatrick-Campbell, Ryerson was not going to enjoy having to seek out another firm for his end of the divorce proceedings.

Not when this firm knows everything about him already. It’s a conflict. It can’t happen.

“Anyway,” Vern grunted, rising to his feet like a tall, exhausted stork. “I just wanted to give you the heads up. You’re likely going to be handling her case.”

The information was a double-edged sword.

On one hand, it was flattering to know that he trusted me with such an important client but on the other hand, did I really want this on top of everything else I had to worry about?

It wasn’t like I had much of a choice in the matter. When the senior partner spoke, us minions jumped to do his bidding.

My only hope was that conflict applied and I wouldn’t have to deal with it.

A man can pray, can’t he?

I watched the senior partner walk towards the door with speculative grey eyes.

When I thought about it, I really had much less to worry about than Vern and at moments like that, I was grateful I didn’t have his job, no matter how alluring the benefits of senior partner might be.

Stop thinking that! I yelled internally. You’re cursing yourself!

Of course, I wanted to be a senior partner. What else was I working toward if not that?

“I’ll keep you updated,” he warned me, and I nodded.

“All right.”

When he retreated into the office, I gazed up at the ceiling, somehow sensing that my Monday jitters were about to get worse.

As if on cue, there was another knock at the door and I immediately tensed.

“Come in,” I called, trying to keep the stress from my voice.

I exhaled in relief when I saw who it was.

She walked toward me, half-smiling in her bemused way, a paper cup in hand.

“You look as eager to seize the day as I feel,” Yvette commented, depositing the coffee before me.

“It’s Monday,” I replied easily. “Thanks.”

It had been our tradition for as long as I could remember; alternating coffee days.

Had it started in college? I could barely remember even though our school days at NYU were not that long ago.

It just seemed to me that Yvette had always been a permanent fixture in my life, bearing coffee and gracing me with that mildly amused expression as if she knew secrets which no one else did.

A strand of silken hair had slipped from her chignon and tickled her rosy cheek, but she didn’t seem to notice it as she peered over my desk and looked at the calendar upside down.

“Ooh,” she taunted. “Beasley and Hunter today. You are a glutton for punishment on a Monday morning.”

“I just want them wrapped up,” I explained, taking a sip of the double espresso, she had brought. “How many months can people argue about a cat?”

Yvette grinned and plopped unceremoniously onto the chair Vern had occupied a minute earlier.

“It is the age-old question of divorce attorneys,” she replied laughing. “If it can be fought over, it will be.”

“And people ask us why we never married,” I said.

A slightly awkward pause followed my words and I chuckled to ease the tension.

“I don’t mean you and me,” I explained, and she nodded.

“I know.”

She glanced at her hands and grinned as something occurred to her.

“I think the next time someone announced their engagement, I am going to let them sit in on a mediation for eight hours.”

I chuckled at the thought.

“It would never work,” I informed her. “No one ever thinks it’s going to happen to them.”

“I know,” Yve agreed. “That’s what makes us so much wiser. And richer.”

I studied her lovely face for a long moment, curious to know if she believed everything she was saying.

There was a defiance in her cerulean blue eyes, one which matched her confidence and undefeatable aura.

I had always known that Yvette Viera was a force with whom to be reckoned.

I suppose that was what had drawn me to her in our college days.

That and the fact that she is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

That had been a long time ago, of course, but occasionally, I was struck by the reminder of how tender and childlike she seemed.

Did she still possess any of the vulnerability she had in school or had it all dissolved into a bit of cynicism with everything we had seen at Kilpatrick-Campbell?

I almost shook my head at the unsolicited thought.

How could she be anything but a skeptic now? Neither of us was the same people we had been back then.

“Why are you staring at me like that?” she asked. “Is my mascara running?”

“That would imply you had tears your ducts and I find that impossible to believe,” I answered smoothly.

Yvette laughed, and I grinned at her.

“I was just thinking about an upcoming case. Ryerson Sterling is getting a divorce.”

Yvette released a low whistle and raised her dark eyebrows appreciatively.

“That is going to be a massive dip in his pocketbook,” she commented, sinking back against the armchair.

She tucked her legs up casually and I marveled at how much she had not physically changed since I had met her in junior year.

“I hope so,” I said, smirking slightly. “I’m going to be representing his wife.”

Yvette’s mouth parted to answer but before she could utter a word, Vern appeared in the doorway, his pale skin almost opaque.

“We might have a problem,” he muttered, and Yvette subtly sat up as if she had not seen slouching against the comfortable leather.

She crossed her long legs professionally, folding her hands properly on her knee.

“What sort of problem?” I asked, swallowing a smile at her smooth transition.

“Ryerson Sterling has learned that his wife has retained us already,” Vern mumbled, glancing at Yvette, the terror on his face evident.

I shrugged.

“Well that was inevitable,” I offered in the way of consolation. I couldn’t reconcile why our boss seemed uncharacteristically disturbed by something he already knew was coming.

Divorce is not for the faint of heart, I thought, mildly tickled at Vern’s demeanor. He should stick to mergers and acquisitions.

“No,” Vern moaned. “This is bad.”

Yvette and I exchanged a confused look before turning our attention back to Vern.

“What?” I demanded, the anticipation getting the best of me.

“Ryerson Sterling wants us to represent him too!” Vern bemoaned, and I exhaled slowly, shrugging my shoulders.

“Well obviously we can’t,” I said, thinking I understood Vern’s chagrin. “It’s a conflict of interest.”

But as I said the words, I realized it still didn’t explain why he was reacting in such a hysterical way.

I could have expected that a power tripping billionaire like Ryerson Sterling might give him an ultimatum but what could Vern do? He had already committed to handling his wife.

You snooze, you lose, Ryerson, I thought. You’re going to have to lick your wounds and move on. He better get used to it because Angeline Sterling and I are going to take lots of your money!

“Sterling doesn’t care,” Vern said dully. “He wants us to handle his side anyway.”

Vern choked but both Yvette and I chuckled.

We shared a look as if to say, “how is this guy even a lawyer?”

“It doesn’t matter what he wants,” Yvette laughed. “It’s illegal. Our firm can’t handle both sides in a divorce case.”

“We can if they both sign off on it,” Vern said flatly.

“Well I am sure that Angeline Sterling is going to have something to say about that,” I replied, quietly rolling my eyes that Vern would even entertain such a thing.

“She did,” he answered. “She says, and I quote, ‘bring it on.’”

Yvette whooped and clapped her hands.

“Nothing like an in-house domestic to get the week rolling,” she joked, rising. “And as fun, as they sound, they’ll still never get a judge to sign off on it. There’s a reason that these laws are in place.”

Vern did not look convinced and for the first time, I began to envelop some of his stress.

Ryerson Sterling knows everyone. He’d have no problem finding a judge to sign off on this if he wanted. He probably has half a dozen judges sitting at the club right now with a pen poised.

But the repercussions of allowing both parties to be represented by the same firm were daunting.

“You two are making me giggle,” Yvette announced, heading toward the doorway. “There is no way this is going to happen.”

“From your mouth to God’s ear, Yvette,” Vern said, and she shrugged indifferently.

“I’ll leave you alone to worry about nothing together,” she declared, shooting us a brief smile.

“Yvette,” Vern called after her and she turned back.

“Yes?”

“If this comes to fruition and the Sterlings both end up at Kilpatrick-Campbell you’re going to be representing Ryerson Sterling.”

The half-smile froze on Yvette’s attractive face as if she suddenly realized why we wore the expressions we did.

“Yeah,” Vern grumbled, also noting her change in disposition. “That’s what I thought.”

He sauntered out of my office without another word, leaving Yvette and I to stare at one another.

“Well,” she said lightly after a moment of silence. “It will be just like the good old days at mock trial.”

I managed a grin but something in my turbulent gut told me that this was not going to end like a mock trial at all.