“Mr. Ames, what would it take to compromise on the house?” the mediator asked. “If there’s nothing, then we should just move this to court.”
Anthony settled back in his chair, arms crossed casually, expression smugly confident. Rebecca wanted to cheer. The game had finally clicked for him. He was playing his part. He shrugged. “Sounds like I’d be better off going to court. That way I’ll get the house, the ridiculous dolls, the better car, and my dog. You’ll end up back home with your parents. You can call Eric and have him remodel your parents’ crappy seventies ranch to make your room real nice.”
Daphne’s jaw flexed, and Raul put a hand on her wrist as if sensing what was about to happen, but it was too late. She was already talking. “Fine. Take the stupid dog! I know that’s what you’re after. He’s a filthy, dumb waste of space anyway.”
Prince Hairy lifted his head beneath the table and whimpered, as if he recognized the description and took offense.
Daphne waved a dismissive hand. “Take him and whatever else of your junk you want. Just give me the house, my furniture, and my car. Then, you never have to see me again. I’m done with this crap.”
Rebecca gave a Mona Lisa smile.
Anthony’s chair squeaked as he sat forward, victory all over his face. “You’ve got a deal.”
Raul closed his eyes and shook his head.
But the mediator pressed her hands together in a silent clap. “Fantastic. Well done. I’m so glad you two could make this work. The agreement will be drafted up, and we’ll be finished with all of this.”
Another love story ended with a signature on a dotted line.
Daphne grabbed her purse and stood, her chair rolling behind her and banging against the wall. “You’re such a smug asshole, thinking you’re so much better than me. If you wouldn’t have treated me—”
“That’s enough, Mrs. Ames,” Rebecca said. “You’ve said your piece.”
Her attention swung Rebecca’s way. “And I don’t care that you’re some famous survivor or whatever. You’re a stuck-up, know-it-all bitch!”
“Daphne…” Raul warned.
But Rebecca held on to her polite smile, the words rolling off her like water on a windshield. Let Daphne have her tantrum. People had all kinds of preconceived notions about Rebecca when they figured out she was the Rebecca Lindt who’d survived the Long Acre High School prom shooting—that crying redheaded girl who was rolled out bleeding on a stretcher on the nightly news twelve years ago. These notions often involved shining light and singing angels, or that she had some secret sauce recipe on how to live a meaningful life. But she had news for them. Surviving a tragedy didn’t make you magical. It made you tough. Not special. Just lucky. “Have a nice day, Mrs. Ames.”
Daphne made a disgusted noise and flounced out the door without a goodbye. Her “emotional companion” didn’t even lift his head. Raul gave Rebecca a vaguely apologetic look. “Sorry about that. She’s just…processing all this.”
Rebecca smirked. “That’s one term for it. But no worries, I’ve been called worse. Probably by you on some days.”
He chuckled as he slipped his things into his briefcase. “Only when I lose. And only respectfully.”
She rolled her eyes but didn’t feel any malice toward Raul. She called him a smarmy bastard on the regular. Rebecca lifted her hand in thanks to the mediator as the woman escaped the room and probably headed to the nearest bar.
“I heard your dad’s running for state senate,” Raul said as Rebecca walked him to the door. “You gonna take his place when he’s elected?”
Rebecca shrugged. “Who knows? I’ve got to earn my way to partner here like anyone else, so it’s not up to me. But my last name’s already on the building, so it’d be economical not to have to change it.”
He laughed. “Right? You’d be doing them a favor. But I bet you have it in the bag anyway, no nepotism needed. Tell your dad I said good luck with the election.”
“Thanks, will do. Have a good weekend.”
They shook hands, and Raul followed the mediator out.
When Rebecca closed the door and turned around to face her client, Anthony pushed his chair back, let out a whoop of victory, and patted his thigh. “Come here, boy.”
The dog scrambled to his feet and leapt into Anthony’s lap with glee. The giant poodle was way too big to be a lapdog, but Anthony didn’t seem to mind. He buried his face in the dog’s copper-colored fur, which really did look like the color of Prince Harry’s hair, and let go a litany of mushy endearments.
Prince licked his owner’s face and made happy, huffing dog noises. Rebecca crossed her arms and shook her head as she stepped closer, amused. “I could’ve won you a lot more money and the house.”
Anthony looked up, absently rubbing the dog’s neck. “I know.”
“But the dog is worth it?”
“Of course he is. Look at him.” Anthony cupped Prince’s snout.