“Riva Greenberg,” Boyd says. He steeples his fingers and stares, his pale gaze probing. “The last time I saw you, you were tearing apart every argument my lawyers made.” He smiles, grandfatherly and light, though his eyes remain hard and sharp.

Faber glances significantly at Boyd, then at Rivi. Rivi doesn’t sit. “My client’s case was strong.”

“Mine should have been stronger,” Boyd says, and he waves a hand. “I fired them all, of course. I only want the best on my team.”

“And you’ll have her,” Sam says, glancing significantly at Rivi.

Rivi finally sits. Waits for an explanation.

“I have two sons,” Boyd says without preamble. “Raised them in privilege. Gave them every opportunity at my business, every project that they wanted. For a time, they recognized that. For a time.” His face darkens. “Imagine my surprise when they broke away from my business to begin their own company. Imagine my shock when I lost a dozen of my most lucrative clients to their business.”

“That must have been very difficult,” Rivi says diplomatically.

“It was corporate espionage,” Boyd spits out. He runs a hand through his thinning gray hair. “They think they can oust me from my position? That they can forcibly retire me? I want to sue those ungrateful brats for everything they’ve got. It was all mine first.” His voice rises with each word. “They took my client lists! They took everything I built from the ground up! And I want them to pay. Do you understand?”

Sam nods with the kind of sympathy that only a billionaire can elicit from him. “Of course. Our firm will prioritize your situation, and—”

“Forget your firm. I don’t care about the rest of you. I only want her.” Boyd stabs a finger at Rivi. “I’m happy to pay a sizable retainer.” He quotes a number that has Rivi’s eyebrows shooting up. It’s a lot more than her billing rate. Than anyone at the firm’s rate. “I know what she can do. I want her to have my sons bawling on the ground by the end. I want them to suffer.” He clenches his fists.

Next to the Boyds, Rivi’s family looks downright utopian. And Rivi might not be out for blood like Boyd is, but she thinks she can easily build a case against his sons. Her specialty is the downtrodden, people wronged by their workplaces, but she thinks she could find it in herself to represent a billionaire for a retainer like that.

“I’ll have to consider the case,” she says carefully. “It’s not exactly my area of expertise, but it’s close.”

“You’ll let me know by the end of the week.” Boyd speaks with the certainty of someone accustomed to getting his way. “I’d like your cell number so I can reach you with new developments. I expect a certain degree of availability from my attorney. We’ll be in touch after you accept.” After you accept. And Rivi thought that she could exude confidence.

She writes her number on a paper and passes it to Boyd. He stands with the support of a cane — he’s young for one, but he leans heavily on it as he walks. He inclines his head to Rivi, and then departs from the room without another remark to Sam.

Sam exhales when he’s gone, shaking his head at Rivi. “Well. He’s a piece of work. But he wants you, and I don’t have to tell you what it would mean to the firm if we have Garrett Boyd as a client.” He leans back in his chair, letting it roll a few inches from the table. “You’re one of our top associates. And if you take this case, I can only see your career trajectory rising.”

Rising. The next step is partner and job security unlike she’s ever had before. Rivi is hit with emotional whiplash, walking into a room expecting to be fired and receiving the client of a lifetime instead.

“It’ll take up most of my caseload,” Rivi points out. Her phone beeps, a message from an unknown number appearing on her screen. I’m emailing a client list for you to research. There’s no introduction, but Boyd doesn’t need one. “Boyd doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who’s willing to share his attorney.” And Rivi has other clients, people who need her to fight big corporations for them. Corporations like Boyd’s.

“He’s your priority.” Sam eyes her, spots her uncertainty, and frowns. He’s got at least two decades on her, and Rivi has always seen him as the friendlier of the founders of Faber & Granada. But for a moment, his eyes are as hard as Boyd’s. “I know you’ll make the right decision,” he says.

“I just need to think it over,” Rivi assures him. Talk to my husband, she thinks, though she would never say that to her boss. A woman too beholden to her home life is seen as a liability in the office, too weak to ever advance. Rivi stands alone here, without the support and comfort of her family to bolster her.

A second beep. It’s Boyd again. Confirm that you received the list.

And yes, she’s definitely going to have to check with Ezra on this one.

“His retainer alone is obscene,” she says to Ezra later, when they’re in the car on the way to middle school parent-teacher conferences. “And it seems like a pretty cut-and-dried case. I took a look at some of his data, and I could easily build a case. Can you imagine if I made partner at thirty-four? And Meir’s bar mitzvah is in a little over a year—”

“It sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” Ezra agrees. He keeps one hand on the steering wheel, eternally calm in traffic when Rivi would be snarling unheard insults at the cars in front of her. “But it’s not the kind of case you usually choose, is it? Do you want to do this?”

Another beep. Rivi switches her phone to silent and surreptitiously checks the text. I’ll be in tomorrow to discuss strategy. Ian is slippery. Ian is one of the sons. Rivi clears her throat. “It might be fun. Stretch myself a little. Try something new.” Her phone buzzes again, and Ezra shoots her a dubious glance. “Make a lot of money,” she concedes. “And make sure that my boss doesn’t fire me on the spot for losing this client.”

“I’m worried.” Ezra eases into a parking spot. “You have a lot on your plate right now. And this seems… unnecessary.” As if on cue, Avi walks past their car, Suri beside him. Avi raises a hand in greeting when he spots them. Suri glowers at him, and Avi’s wave becomes a sheepish scratch of his beard.

“You could try to talk to her here,” Ezra suggests. “It’s a neutral space.”

“Suri can make any place a war zone,” Rivi points out. “Why bother? She’ll hate me regardless.”

Ezra lets out something that sounds suspiciously like an exasperated sigh. Rivi wonders why she ever decided to send her children to the same school as their cousins.

They walk toward the yeshivah building, moving with the crowd of parents to the auditorium where the rebbeim are seated. Each one has a table set up with two chairs opposite him.

Rivi can feel Suri’s glare on her, cold and judgmental, from the other side of the auditorium. She points. “There. Rabbi Markowitz.”

“Rabbi Moskowitz,” Ezra corrects her, grimacing, and Rivi winces and follows him to the next line. In her defense, Meir usually just calls him Rebbi. “His other rebbi is Rabbi—”

“Goldshein. I know.”

She feels suddenly defensive. Her phone buzzes again, another text from Boyd that she determinedly ignores. This is Meir’s time, free of the distractions of work.

They sit down with Rabbi Moskowitz, and Rivi shuts out everything that has happened today and focuses only on Meir. “He’s such a mature boy,” Rabbi Moskowitz says enthusiastically. “So wholehearted in his shteiging. You should have heard the kashe he asked last week—” He stops, frowning. Rivi’s phone is buzzing loud enough that even he can hear it. “Do you need to take that call?”

“No,” Rivi says quickly. Boyd calls again, and Rivi tucks the phone under her, trapping it against the chair where it might be quieter.

Rabbi Moskowitz clears his throat and returns to singing Meir’s praises. Rivi focuses on it and not the phone vibrating against her leg.

Finally, Boyd must have given up, because the phone stops ringing. Ezra leans forward to inquire about an issue with Meir’s chavrusa, and Rivi feels confident enough in her knowledge of the conflict to chime in. Rabbi Moskowitz listens and nods, asking more questions, and Rivi is answering one when she feels the phone begin to vibrate again.

When they’re finished with Rabbi Moskowitz, she dares to check her phone. There are three missed calls from Boyd and one text. She wets her lips, glances up and sees Suri across the room, watching Rivi check her phone with narrowed eyes.

“I’ll call him back later,” Rivi says, forcing her voice to sound upbeat. “I can turn off my phone. Rabbi Goldshein now, right?” She looks at Ezra beseechingly.

Ezra lets out a long sigh, a flicker of aggravation in his eyes. He tamps it down quickly, but it feels like a blow. “Go,” he says. “Talk to the client. I’ll take care of PTA.” He manages a wan smile.

Rivi wants to refuse. She can feel Suri’s glare still on her, can see the curious glances of a few nearby parents. She’s here for Meir, and she doesn’t miss these conferences.

Then her phone buzzes again. It isn’t even Boyd this time — it’s Gabe with a question about bedtime — but it’s enough for Ezra’s face to shutter as he turns away.

To be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 914)