Chapter 39: Loophole?
Mrs. Harriet’s smile faded to something more composed. She reached for her wine glass, took a slow sip, and set it down with the deliberateness of a woman buying herself three seconds to think.
"These are significant asks, Liam."
"They’re proportionate asks," he said. "You know what a wrongful termination suit would cost the firm. Not just financially — the optics. A senior associate with my billing record taking Harlan and Associates to court would be a conversation people have at every firm dinner in Seattle for the next two years."
"I’m aware." She didn’t flinch. "I’m not disputing the logic. I’m saying I need time to review what you’ve put forward before I can commit to anything."
"That’s fair."
She looked at him. "I’ll be in touch."
Liam nodded slowly, then allowed himself a small smile. "I’d prefer it if we spoke in person again. Like tonight. Vanessa is charming but I think we both know this kind of conversation requires the principal."
Something shifted in Mrs. Harriet’s expression — not suspicion, not quite. More like the quiet recalibration of a woman filing a detail away for later. She didn’t read anything into it. Why would she? She was the managing partner of a firm that billed four hundred dollars an hour at entry level. Men asked for her attention constantly and it never meant anything beyond the professional.
"I’ll keep that in mind," she said simply.
She gestured toward the adjacent table. Both men returned — Darren settling back into his chair with the quiet relief of someone released from a pressure chamber, the grey-haired colleague resuming his seat beside Mrs. Harriet as well.
The temperature in the room shifted. Jackets loosened and menus appeared.
What followed was forty minutes of the kind of conversation Liam was genuinely good at — measured, intelligent, moving easily between the practical and the peripheral. They discussed the logistics of the firm’s New York expansion, the shifting landscape of corporate litigation on the west coast, the particular challenges facing boutique practices entering a market dominated by legacy names. Mrs. Harriet’s colleague turned out to be a contracts specialist named Gerald who had strong opinions about arbitration clauses and softened considerably after his second scotch.
Darren said little as everything said was foreign to him but he listened to everything.
Liam ordered the dry-aged ribeye without looking at the price. Darren ordered the same because why not?
Gerald ordered the salmon. Mrs. Harriet ordered nothing substantial — just a second glass of wine and a small plate she barely touched.
And throughout all of it, Liam felt it.
Her gaze.
It wasn’t obvious. Never obvious — she was far too controlled for that. But there were moments, mid-sentence, mid-sip, when he would glance across the table and find her eyes already on him. Not the evaluating stare of a managing partner sizing up a liability. It was something different, almost like a subconscious action.
He understood it now unlike if it happened twenty minutes ago.
It had been a while since a man had impressed her. That much was expected. Not surprised her — powerful women got surprised regularly, by crises and market shifts and difficult clients. But impressed? That was a different story altogether.
The specific experience of sitting across from someone younger than you, watching them think faster than you expected, negotiate cleaner than you prepared for, and decline money like it was an inconvenience rather than a lifeline.
That landed differently.
The bill arrived on a small silver tray and was placed, without ceremony, in front of Mrs. Harriet.
She reached for it.
Liam’s hand got there first.
The table went quiet. Gerald looked up from his scotch. Darren went very still because even Liam would be over his head.
Mrs. Harriet pulled her hand back slowly, her eyes moving to Liam’s face. "That isn’t necessary."
"I know." He had already opened it. He didn’t look at the total before placing his card inside and closing it. "Consider it a gesture of good faith."
She studied him for a moment that lasted slightly longer than it needed to. "You’re a strange man, Liam."
"I’m glad I’m not the only one..." Darren whispered to him, almost drawing a laugh from his friend.
The waiter collected the tray. Gerald looked at Mrs. Harriet. She looked at no one in particular and picked up her wine glass, which was empty.
You’re right, my apologies. Let me pull the exact format from the book.
[Ding!]
[Transaction Recorded]
[Target: Harriet Harlan (High-Tier MILF)]
[Investment: $430 (Covered full table — strategic gesture of good faith)]
[Base Value: $860]
[300% Beginner Bonus Applied]
[Rebate Received: $2,580]
-
The night air outside The Metropolitan Grill was cool and clean after the warmth of the dining room. Their footsteps crossed the lot in silence until the restaurant doors fell shut behind them.
Then Darren exhaled like a man who had been holding his breath underwater.
"Fucking hell." He loosened his tie with both hands. "That was — what was that? Who is that woman?"
"Someone I used to work for." Liam stated stated the obvious.
"She looked at you like—" Darren stopped himself, shook his head. "I don’t even know how to describe it. Like you were a problem she hadn’t decided whether to solve or keep." He fell into step beside Liam. "I’ve never been intimidated by someone who didn’t raise their voice once. Not once. She gave me the fucking chills!"
"That’s the point," Liam said.
"Is it always like that?"
"It depends, she is on the top of the food chain."
Darren whistled low. "I need a drink."
"You just had three, you lowbudget drunk!"
"I need a different kind of drink."
Liam unlocked the car and paused with his hand on the door.
"I think she just made me richer," he said quietly.
Darren frowned. "She didn’t agree to anything yet."
"No." Liam opened the door. "She didn’t."
But he wasn’t talking about the deal.
He was still running the number in his head — the total bill, the full table, every drink Gerald had ordered and every untouched plate Mrs. Harriet had left behind. The system had logged the entire transaction as a single investment the moment his card cleared. One figure, clean.
He hadn’t intended it as a system move. He’d done it on instinct for a power play, the same way he’d bought Darren the suit under a different circumstance — because there was no reason not to, and it was the kind of gesture that communicated something words couldn’t.
But the rebate had fired all the same.
He sat with that for a moment as Darren buckled his seatbelt beside him.
"Was that a loophole?"
He turned the logic over carefully. The system tracked investments made toward older women. It didn’t specify that the investment had to be made exclusively toward the target. It specified that it had to be made. The bill covered everyone at that table — Gerald’s scotch, Darren’s ribeye, all of it — but Mrs. Harriet had been the intended recipient to clear it. She was the one the gesture was for. And the system, apparently, knew the difference between intent and execution.
Or perhaps it didn’t distinguish at all.
Liam stared through the windshield at the warm glow of the restaurant entrance.
However, the system had flagged her.
Harriet Harlan. Married. Powerful. Forty-two years old and built like the word discipline had been given a physical form which meant making any moves on her will be very tricky. And somewhere between his three terms and her dimples breaking through that composure, the system had looked at whatever small unguarded expression she’d allowed to surface and decided it was enough.
It was always enough. That was how it had started with Rachel, with Sophia. A conversation, a moment of real interest and that was enough for them to become targets which meant mutual interest must also be a factor.
But would he be able to see it through with a woman who was actually married?
He thought about what she’d done. Not personally — she hadn’t signed the letter, hadn’t made the call. But she’d run the firm that had taken his career, his relationship, and his reputation in the same week and hadn’t lost a night of sleep over it.
The guilt he’d half-expected to feel didn’t come.
He started the engine.
"You good?" Darren asked.
"Yeah." Liam pulled out of the lot. "I’m good."
