I knew this was completely out of line for him to do, but I couldn’t help but be curious. “I want to see the suite! Should I text Derrick to see if we can stop by?”

“Kevin just said they’re all at the pool. Let’s go!”

“You go,” I insisted, turning to my closet. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

Vivienne’s words echoed in my head: Don’t wear a bikini.

“You can borrow one of mine,” Carmen offered.

“Nah, thanks though. But I’ll get a drink and put my feet in.”

As we approached the crowded pool, it was obvious who the Klasko first-years were. It was almost comforting to see that first-years from all the offices around the world looked similarly stressed-out and sleep-deprived, in stark contrast to the tanned and beautiful tourists in the pool. Kevin introduced us to three male associates from LA, who stood in the pool with their elbows resting on the ledge, typing furiously into their phones, two women from Hamburg, and another from our Tokyo office. Ten or so others smiled at us with no introduction.

I took a seat on a lounge chair while Carmen pulled off her gauzy cover-up. Everybody stared at her. The LA boys stopped typing. Her breasts spilled out to the sides of her tiny black bikini top before she submerged them underwater, at which point the guys turned back to their phones.

Derrick made his way over to me. “You’re begging to get tossed in,” he said, eyeing my shorts and T-shirt.

“You wouldn’t dare.” I narrowed my eyes at him. Though he was smiling, there was something different about him, a darkness in his mood. I held my hand up to the glare of the sun to see him more clearly, but he turned to a waitress, ordered another drink, and dove into the water.

“This firm was founded in 1918 on the principles that unparalleled excellence and creative thought are paramount in the practice of law . . .” At our introductory meeting in the late afternoon, a young black female partner who was head of Klasko’s Diversity Initiative spoke passionately while a photograph of the two dead white male founders was projected onto the screen behind her. I looked around the dark hotel ballroom, which was filled with roughly four hundred first-year associates trying to stay awake. One of the double doors in the back of the room opened. Derrick sauntered in and took the only free seat, which happened to be at my table. He didn’t acknowledge me, his eyes never leaving the screen.

“Twenty-seven percent of our associates are diverse.” I looked back at the projection and attempted to imagine the feeling of being in the numerator of the screen boasting our diversity ratio.

The next slide popped up, featuring a map of the world. The green areas were financial centers, both established and potential, and we had office locations in each of them.

“We here at Klasko & Fitch believe very strongly that in order to be a truly global firm, seamlessly servicing our clients across jurisdictions, we must know one another. I’m proud to report that all three hundred and eighty-nine of our first-year associates from our thirty-seven offices across the globe are here today. You are what we are investing in. You are our future. Please take time to get to know . . .”

I looked at the tall blond man next to me. His name tag indicated that he was Cedric Schmidt from our Hamburg office, and that he was one of eight siblings. I looked down at my own: “Alexandra Vogel, New York Office, Holder of the Girls’ World Junior Record in both the 50 Freestyle and 400 Freestyle from 2009 to 2019.” I blushed, thinking how boastful the “fun fact” I’d given to HR a few weeks ago must seem to Cedric from Hamburg.

“Cool!” he whispered in a strong German accent as he leaned into me.

When the screen went blank, the presenter wrapped up. “Please enjoy your free time for the next two hours. Dinner will be at seven thirty right back in this room. Jeans are more than acceptable. At nine thirty, buses will leave for bumper cars if you’d like to go. And remember, try not to work too much.” Everybody laughed politely. On cue, the six waiters standing in the back of the ballroom swung the doors open in unison to reveal a full bar waiting for us just outside, and we all erupted into applause.

I grabbed two beers and headed toward my room to wait for Jordan to call me to discuss edits to the merger agreement draft I had sent him. As soon as I slipped away from the crowd at the bar and into the lobby, I spotted a blond woman in an armchair, strikingly beautiful though heavily made up. Hooker or socialite? She sat with her legs crossed, her legs so long that her knees nearly reached to her chest. Socialite. Her strappy heels looked worn. Her hair changed texture just below her neckline. Hooker. The handle of her Chanel bag was carefully hung from her chair arm. Socialite. If it’s real.

As I waited at the elevator bank, I tried not to stare.

“Alex!”

Vivienne White had exited an elevator and paused in front of me, radiating a warmth I had never gotten from her in New York. The tan, silver-haired man with her stopped as well.

“Hi! I didn’t realize you’d be here. So good to see you,” I said as I extended my hand.

“I’m doing your ethics presentation tomorrow with George here. George, this is my all-too-neglected associate mentee, Alex Vogel. She’s quickly becoming a rock star of the M&A group without any help from me, though, so don’t feel too bad for her. Alex, George Jacobson.”

Managing partner of our Washington, DC, office. Big deal.

George Jacobson shook my hand firmly, and I tried to maintain eye contact, but I was distracted again by the long-legged woman in the lobby. Was that Derrick talking to her now? Can’t be . . .

“Pleasure.” I looked again at George and then back over his shoulder.

That was Derrick. He was taking out his wallet. What was he . . .

“I’m horrible. No more canceling from me, Alex,” Vivienne said, a little too sweetly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, but we need to have a proper lunch when I get back.”

I nodded and tried to focus, but I couldn’t keep my eyes off Derrick. Vivienne turned to see where I was looking.

“Oh my gosh. Is that a prostitute?” she asked, giggling as she covered her mouth.

“For sure,” George confirmed. “And in broad daylight.”

My heart beat more quickly. “No, I don’t think so,” I said, shaking my head vigorously.

“Isn’t that one of our associates with her?” Vivienne asked, suddenly serious.

“I’m not . . . I don’t know,” I stammered.

“That’s a Klasko name tag on him!” George said.

I was saved by the ding of another elevator arriving. “Looking forward to the presentation!” I yelled after them as the doors closed me in.

I sat in my hotel room and stared at my blank computer screen. Had I just gotten Derrick into trouble? Would they even say anything to him? I bet they wouldn’t. It didn’t even make any sense that he’d be with a female prostitute. Wasn’t he gay?

The trill of my hotel room phone sent me flying out of my seat in terror. “Hello?”

“Hey, Skip. How is it?” I could hear Jordan flipping through papers on his desk. “Do you have my markup in front of you?” Shit shit shit. If I hadn’t been staring, they would have never noticed Derrick. I scrolled past an email from Carmen telling me to call her and one from Kevin about where they’d be drinking after dinner, and opened the email with Jordan’s markup. “Got it.”

Turning changes took longer than I had expected, and by ten I noted with relief that I had missed an awkward associates’ dinner. I ordered room service.

At midnight I finally got around to calling Carmen, who answered after one ring and with no preamble. “Where have you BEEN? Derrick got caught with hookers and coke!”

“What? What happened?!”

“I mean, he had hookers and coke in his hotel room! George Jacobson from the DC office knocked on his door and apparently saw everything.”

“They were in his room? Multiple? Female? How do you know? Is he in jail?”

“No, he’s not in jail! He’s a Klasko associate. Could you even imagine the field day the press would have if he went to jail?”

“Seriously, how do you know all this?”

“One of the girls from the Houston office got upgraded to the suite floor, in the room next to his. She stuck her head out of her door and heard the whole thing go down. And yes. Female hookers. That’s the weirdest part.”

“Jesus!” I closed my eyes. “What do you think is going to happen?”

“I have no fucking idea! But seriously, you miss all the good scandals by working too much, Alex.”

I closed my eyes, guilt draining the energy from my body. I knew something was going on with him.

“Questions?” Vivienne asked at the end of the last slide of her ethics presentation. Hands shot up. I’d searched the crowd for Derrick when I arrived, but hadn’t seen him then, and I didn’t see any sign of him now. I hadn’t yet heard any word as to his fate, and I didn’t want to reach out and embarrass him. I looked at my phone, refreshed my in-box again, and immediately spotted an email from Peter.

From: Peter Dunn

To: Alexandra Vogel

Subject: How is Academy?

From: Alexandra Vogel

To: Peter Dunn