A distinctly male grunt.

I instinctively covered my mouth and lowered myself to sit on a step. I glided slowly upward using both my hands and feet, craning my neck slightly, too curious not to look but terrified I’d spot somebody who I definitely did not want to see me. What if it was Mike Baccard? Or any partner? He’d never be able to look me in the eye again. My career would be over! But I couldn’t help myself. I crawled one step higher, and one body came into view, long blond hair on a head bobbing back and forth at the waist level of a man who was standing, his head thankfully just out of range, his white button-down untucked, his navy pinstripe jacket still on. His pants, I imagined, lay crumpled around his ankles. I watched for longer than I should have. I knew it was somehow depraved, but I couldn’t tear myself away. I craned my neck again, bringing the girl’s gossamer pink shirt further into view. Nancy!

I retreated back down the stairs as quietly as I could, but I dropped my phone on the concrete. A sound like china plates shattering on a restaurant floor echoed off the unforgiving surface. I stood frozen for a moment, and felt the two bodies above me tense. There was whispering. And then movement. I was certain they’d run away up the stairs, but I heard them thudding down them instead. I snapped into action, grabbing my phone and darting out of the door on the first landing I came to. I let the door close behind me, then leaned back against it for a moment, shutting my eyes. It occurred to me then that they needed to know who I was so that they could determine just how much trouble they would be in with the firm, if I was somebody who would talk. They might still be following me.

I sprinted to the elevator bank and pressed the down button frantically, then dove into the elevator. But before the doors could close all the way, Nancy appeared on the other side. We stared at each other, dumbfounded, as the steel doors sealed me in and shoved me downward. I looked up at the camera in the corner of the elevator. Lincoln must be getting quite the show tonight.

Jordan was going to find it absolutely hilarious that annoying, judgmental little Nancy was giving head in a dirty stairwell. As I walked to his office, I practiced how I’d begin the story, but when I arrived, Jordan looked stressed. He beckoned me in impatiently and immediately dialed the conference line. Hold music came on. I wiped the shit-eating grin from my face. Something must have gone south with the deal. Shit.

He opened his mouth to speak just as the voice on the line announced that the conference would begin.

Despite his seeming anxiety, the call was going according to script—which I’d learned was the absolute best-case scenario in the legal world. We had already signed up the deal, and everybody had agreed to the terms, but we had bifurcated closing, meaning that all that needed to happen was for the funds to transfer from the buyer’s account to the seller’s—save our $2 million worth of legal fees, of course. The closing call was scheduled for nine tomorrow morning, and with any luck, I could be home in bed by eleven a.m.

As we were wrapping up, the opposing counsel said he had one more thing to add. “Lastly, we need to disclose that there appears to have been a small breach by the buyer in the confidentiality agreement. The news of the asset purchase seems to have been announced at the annual shareholders meeting.”

I lifted my head up from my pad and turned wide-eyed to Jordan. I opened my mouth to whisper a question, and he silenced me with a quick shake of his head.

“Jordan?” the opposing counsel asked. “Did I lose you?”

“No,” he said.

“Look, Jordan, I don’t think there is actually any effect on the company, or—” He stopped himself. “It could have been an agreement only for the seller to sign to begin with. There was no reason for the buyer to remain hush-hush. But I will have all answers by nine a.m.”

Jordan sat there without speaking.

“I know this could potentially unravel the deal, but it won’t,” the opposing counsel stammered, filling the silence.

Matt’s voice came through the phone. “That’s for our client to say, not yours, John.” Jordan and I breathed a sigh of relief. “And going forward, I’d appreciate you not waiting until the end of a call to tell us something that could kill the deal. It’s irrelevant whether the confidentiality agreement could have been one-sided. It is, in fact, reciprocal. We’ll get back to you once we confer with our client.” There was a beep, and the automated voice let us know Matt had left the conference, so we hung up, too.

“I have to call Didier and tell him what’s going on,” Jordan said. “But I need to know all scenarios. Call Taylor now and have them run valuations now and at nine in the morning based on market rumors affecting revenue by fifteen percent going forward. I need an answer by two a.m.” He glanced at his open door to dismiss me. “I’m going to circle back with Matt. It’s going to be a long night.”

I nodded, and was almost out the door when he spoke again.

“Alex.” I turned around to see him staring at me. “Did you see how I kept my mouth shut on that call?” I gave a hesitant nod. “It’s important to know when not to speak.”

I nodded again, more than slightly confused. Did I speak too much on client calls?

“Am I being clear?”

He had never taken this particular tone with me—condescending and formal—and it infuriated me. I looked from his white shirt to his navy pinstripe suit jacket. I felt my eyes widen despite my attempt to maintain a poker face. I felt my gaze drift down to his wedding ring as he clasped his hands together, and then I locked eyes with him and nodded. My heart sank as I realized that the possibility that he and Nancy had gotten together for the first time tonight was remote at best.

“I didn’t see any . . . yes. Clear.” I forced my rubbery legs out of his office, then returned to my desk and tried to figure out how I had missed what had been happening right in front of my face.

“Hello?” I heard Taylor from National’s voice through the receiver before realizing that I had called his cell.

“Hey. It’s Alex from Klasko. Did I wake you?”

“I wish. I’m actually still in the office. What’s up?”

“DuVont disclosed the asset sale at their shareholder meeting today,” I told him.

“Fuck. It’s always the ones you file as ‘closed’ in your brain.” He sounded calm enough, though, I noted with relief.

“Yeah, so we need to rerun the valuations by one a.m.” I gave myself an hour cushion in case he was late getting me the projections. “Two scenarios . . .”

I slept in the office the next two nights, and we ended up closing the deal on Friday morning instead of Wednesday. The moment we did, there was a flurry of emails from National thanking our team for its diligence and efficiency in the face of complications, and I replied-all with a quick email telling them they were my favorite client before hopping in a Quality car home. As soon as I was in the car, I recalled my last bizarre encounter and stiffened. My eyes went to the rearview mirror, where I was relieved to see an unfamiliar face. He barely looked back at me as he started down Fifth Avenue.

*

I returned to the office on Monday after a weekend of sleep, having decided I’d reach out to Jordan first thing and smooth over any awkwardness, letting him know that as far as I was concerned, the incident never happened. Little did he know, I was in no position to judge. Before I could dial his number, though, he called me.

“Hey.” I tried to sound nonchalant, but overshot a bit.

“Hey, Alex.”

Why was he using my real name? He hadn’t called me anything but Skippy in months.

“Matt just got off the phone with the National crew. They are so happy with how the deal turned out and the job we did for them that they want to celebrate with a night out. Tonight is the only night they can do in the next few weeks. We’re going to take them for dinner at The Grill. So . . . yeah . . . you’re coming.”

“Okay!” I said, feeling the tension through the phone and wondering for a moment whether I should say something about the stairwell to try to dispel it before thinking better of the idea. “Sounds fun!”

“K, bye.” He hung up, and I winced at his abruptness.

I pulled up the collar of my shirt to just below my eyes, as if it could hide me from the awkwardness I felt, then popped my head back out and dialed his number.

“Hello?” He sounded confused.

“Hey. So, do you want to meet me at the bar in The Grill at like seven and grab a drink before we meet up with everybody else?” I squinted as I waited for his response, imagining that it was exactly how it must feel to ask somebody out on a date.