“Do you have those files on the Preston case?”

I glance up from my desk to where Nate is lingering in the doorway. He’s older than me at thirty-five, but his cornsilk-blond hair and bright blue eyes give him a boyish sort of look that makes you want to baby him. It’s something he capitalizes on frequently. The man has dimples, for Christ’s sake.

I jerk my head toward the top of the filing cabinet. “There are copies there.”

“Cramming for your Italian madame?”

“Basically.” I shake my head as I continue reading through the article I found online. “Did you know she comes from her own money? Her family are the Loredans.” When Nate gives me a blank look, I add, “As in Loredan Jewelry.”

“Yeah, I don’t follow.”

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Vera snorts as she pops up in my doorway. “They’re like the Italian Cartier.”

Vera regards Nate with the same level of barely checked impatience that stems from his constantly badgering her, and like clockwork, I watch his gaze flicker over her face, lingering on her dark eyes and her warm brown skin with an interest I’m fairly certain she’s oblivious to. Or maybe she’s aware and just isn’t interested. Vera’s an absolute vault unless she feels like sharing; she has been since we graduated from law school together.

Nate’s mouth quirks. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Wow, seriously,” Vera tuts. “It’s truly a wonder that you’re single.”

Nate makes a kissy face. “Just saving myself for you.”

“Guys.” I rub my temples. “Can we all pretend that this is the biggest case of my career for five seconds?”

“So if she’s rich…” Nate leans against the filing cabinet, crossing his arms. “Why is she pushing to fight the prenup? Why not just ditch the bastard and snag herself a pretty boy toy?”

“Really?” Vera cuts him a look. “If the prick really did cheat on her, he’s lucky she isn’t taking his balls.”

Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Tell me again how you’re single?”

“Saving myself for you,” Vera echoes blandly. She looks at me then. “I came to tell you that she’s here, by the way.”

I shoot up from my desk so fast that my knee knocks against the underside. “Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing the sore spot. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“I got her some coffee and set her up in the conference room. I figured you’d need a second to do some Lamaze or something before you go in there. You’ve been running around like a wild ferret all week.”

“That’s sweet of you,” I deadpan.

Vera shrugs. “That is what people say about me.”

“Lamaze is for pregnant women,” Nate points out.

Vera arches a brow in his direction. “How do you know that but not about Cartier?”

“I don’t have those answers for you,” Nate tosses back.

I blow out a steady breath, ignoring my coworkers and their back-and-forth. Usually, I’m more than happy to sit back and watch their weird mating ritual, but today I’m all nerves, which isn’t me.

“Okay,” I say, interrupting some argument about meditative breathing. “I’m going in.”

Nate shoots me a thumbs-up. “Good luck. Tell her I’m available if she comes around to the boy toy idea.”

“I doubt she has enough room to house your big head,” Vera scoffs.

Nate grins. “How many square feet is your place again?”

I grab my portfolio and my notes before I leave them behind in my office to make quick steps down the hallway, my heart thudding in perfect time with each click of my heels against the sleek black tile. The conference room door is closed as I approach, and I linger outside of it for a moment, smoothing my hands over my gray pencil skirt and straightening my red silk blouse as I take another fortifying breath.

“You’ve got this, Dani,” I mutter, reaching for the brass handle.

Mrs. Casiraghi sits on the opposite side of the long conference table in the center of the room, her back straight in the leather chair as she gingerly sips her coffee. Her graying hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her clothes neat and pressed and screaming subtle wealth. She turns to look at me when I enter, her lips pressing into a faint line and her brow arching.

“Mrs. Casiraghi,” I greet her as I close the door behind me. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I move to settle in a chair opposite her. “I’m Dani.” I reach across the table to offer her my hand. “Dani Pierce.”

Her steely blue eyes assess me, traveling down the front of me before climbing back to my face. “You don’t look like a Dani.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dani is a child’s name,” she goes on, her accent giving her voice a slight edge. “Are you a child?”

“I…” Part of me is bristling, but another part notices that she doesn’t look as if she’s mocking me when she says this. It’s more like she’s sizing me up. “My full name is Danica.”

Her red lips part in a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, yes. Much better. Danica sounds like a powerful woman.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “I like powerful women.”

This entire exchange is bizarre, but my mouth is still turning up at the corners. I decide, for whatever reason, I like Mrs. Casiraghi. “You strike me as someone who knows how to spot one from experience.”

“I used to think I was a powerful woman,” she muses quietly. “These days…I’m not so sure.”

“That’s where I come in,” I tell her with confidence. “Manuel told me a little about your situation, and of course I’ve had time this week to research you, but I was hoping to hear things straight from you, if I can.”

“Well, that is why I’m here,” she says. She eyes me again. “Are you married, Danica?”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am. Never took the plunge.”

“Pity.” She nods idly. “You are a pretty young woman.”

“And powerful,” I say with a grin.

Her lips twitch. “Yes, and that.”

I doubt that Mrs. Casiraghi has any interest in hearing all the things that ensure I will most likely never take the plunge—my parents’ farce of a marriage, Grant walking out of my life, my cynicism of the construct in general—so I keep the conversation focused on her.

“I’m surprised you would think it is a pity, given your situation,” I offer. “No offense intended.”

She waves me off. “No offense. It is not marriage I am angry at. Marriage is beautiful. It is my husband that betrayed me.”

“Of course.” I flip open my portfolio to the legal pad inside, grabbing a pen and unclicking it. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“There is another woman,” she tells me.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It is Lorenzo who will be sorry.”

My lips twitch. I might really like Mrs. Casiraghi.

“That’s the idea,” I tell her. “Manuel says you have proof of his infidelity?”

“He has been calling her,” she answers coldly. “I have records that I pulled. There are emails also. My husband is surprisingly crass with his mistress. I can’t imagine why woman would want to be wooed with talk of his cock.” She clicks her tongue. “It hardly works anymore.”

I have to bite my lower lip to hold back a laugh as I make notes. “You have copies of these exchanges?”

“Of course. His assistant is as spineless as he is.” She reaches down to a clasped leather bag and starts pulling out manila folders. “The little man was shaking when I made him let me into Lorenzo’s office.”

I take the folders from her, flipping through them. “I have to warn you that even with evidence like this, the defense is going to say that it’s circumstantial. They’ll claim he was hacked, or that someone else was using his computer, or any number of things.”

“I am aware that Lorenzo will try to slither his way out of his own mess,” she says. “But as you say. This is where you come in, yes?”

A slow smile creeps onto my face. “Right. That’s where I come in.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure your husband pays for his indiscretions, Mrs. Casiraghi.”