“Come with me to a meeting with Mike Baccard?”

He nodded. “Of course. And I know it’s not worth much, but for what it’s worth, I’m really sorry. . . . I wish I could have shielded you from this.”

“Yeah, Skip. You’re our girl. I’m so sorry this happened to you, that we didn’t protect you,” Jordan added.

I nodded in gratitude as I fought the urge to correct them. I didn’t need their protection. Not any longer. I could protect myself.

I shifted my weight in my seat as I forced myself to recount the mistakes I had made with Peter and what I had discovered about Gary Kaplan to Mike Baccard. I heard my own words in my ears, but my brain was focused on the brittle hairs of whatever hide Mike’s designer chairs were made out of digging uncomfortably into the back of my thighs. Only when I had finished speaking did I notice the thudding in my chest. I immediately regretted saying anything at all. What was I thinking, telling the chair of my firm that I’d had an affair with a senior partner? This was the dumbest thing I could have done. My career was over. I breathed in deeply and exhaled slowly, calming my pressured breaths, and then turned to Matt. He gave me an encouraging nod of approval before we both looked back at Mike, who nodded deliberately, leaning his balding head back in his plush leather chair in his massive office.

“I’m so sorry that this has been your experience thus far at Klasko. I’m terribly displeased,” he said, transforming from an attorney into a politician. His face somehow revealed nothing at all about what he was thinking, making my effort to determine whether he already knew any of what I had told him entirely futile. “And I cannot speak to the situation with Carmen Greyson, but we would very much like to make you whole after this experience.”

I glared at him. “I don’t want money. I want things to change. Are you going to address the situation with Stag River and Gary Kaplan?”

Matt spoke up from next to me. “Mike, we need to do something about it.”

“I’m sure your information is accurate,” Mike said slickly. “But we have no proof.”

“I have proof that Gary Kaplan’s a sexual predator,” I said, and they both snapped to attention.

“What did you say, dear?” Mike asked me. Did he just call me “dear”?

“I have a recording of Gary attempting to sexually assault me. I left myself a voice-mail message of the entire thing. It’s fuzzy, but his voice is clear enough that you would know it’s him. A jury might, too.” In reality, I knew that the message was probably an indiscernible blur of noise, but at this moment it was the only leverage I seemed to have.

“Gary Kaplan sexually assaulted you?” Mike leaned in toward me.

“He did,” I said as calmly as I could manage.

The two of them stared at me with slack jaws. Matt put his hand on my shoulder, and then took it away, as if suddenly thinking it was inappropriate.

“If you don’t want money, what do you want?” Mike asked measuredly.

“I do want money. Just not for myself. Sorry if that wasn’t clear. I want an annual budget. A women’s initiative budget of two million dollars. That’s the amount of our legal fees on one or two deals every year for Stag River. We must do thirty of them each year.”

“Two million? Annually?” Matt clarified.

I nodded.

Mike grunted. “You couldn’t possibly spend that in a year.”

“We can. I’m thinking globally. I want to start a BigLaw women’s initiative, with events throughout the year and one large global event annually in New York or London with guest speakers, breakout sessions, empowerment and self-defense seminars, the whole nine yards. It will be free for all women in BigLaw. Klasko will graciously offer to finance it. At least for the first few years. I’d imagine other firms will want to sponsor going forward.” I looked down for a moment before continuing. “The only way I’m ever going to feel normal again after what happened is if I use it to make a difference.”

Matt puffed out his chest. “We have to make sure this kind of thing never happens again.”

“It will happen again,” I said, stopping just shy of snapping at him. “Many times, I’m sure. My goal is to teach people how to deal with it. And to create a system of accountability and repercussions and support.”

Matt and Mike looked at each other, and Mike’s expression grayed over as he opened his mouth to speak. My mind clicked through a montage of the countless occasions in which I had watched Matt and Peter negotiate terms in their favor. I saw before me a series of choices: Speak or listen? Firm or friendly? Lowball or overshoot?

I cut Mike off. “If I’m not given the funds, I’ll forward that email of the recording to every contact I have. Below the Belt would eat it up. I’ll ruin Stag River. Can you really survive without them as a client?” I narrowed my eyes. “Thank god for digital voice mail, right?”

Mike stared at me, looking defensive. “You’d take down Gary Kaplan. Not Stag River.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you so sure?” I saw Matt trying not to smile as he recognized his own signature move on my face.

“Young lady, I know you’d like to join the ranks of the M&A team, and destroying their largest client is not the way—”

I almost leapt across the table at his use of the diminutive, but Matt felt the change in my energy and intervened before I could. “Give her the funds, Mike,” he said, cutting him off. “You don’t really have a choice.”

Mike stared him down for a protracted moment as I squirmed in my seat, then blinked first. “I’ll need to convince the executive team. This will come out of the global budget.”

I exhaled and allowed my shoulders to drop below my earlobes. It was essentially a yes.

As we left Mike Baccard’s office together, Matt’s eyes were glistening. I gave him a smile and shook my head as if to tell him, Don’t be sad for me.

“I’m proud of you, Skippy. And a little scared of you, to be honest.” He gave a small laugh as he walked down the hallway.

I’d sent Carmen and Nancy a cryptic email asking them both to stop by my office, and recounted the story of the assault, the diner, and the budget I’d secured for the women’s initiative, barely stopping for a breath. “So?” I finally asked. “What do you say?”

They sat staring at me, which I hadn’t anticipated. I’d expected excitement, even gratitude, given what we’d all been through.

“Say something,” I said, my tone almost pleading.

“It’s so awful” was all Carmen could manage.

Nancy nodded. “I can’t believe that happened to you.”

“No! I mean about being VP and secretary of the Women’s Initiative.” They were focusing on entirely the wrong part of my story. “I need you guys.”

Nancy seemed to process it, and began to nod. “I’m in. Whatever you need. I think we can make it really great. We can—”

“I can’t,” Carmen blurted out. Nancy and I watched her with bated breath, hoping that she’d change her mind. “I just need to get out of here. Make a clean break.” She crossed her hands and pulled them apart like an umpire calling somebody safe.

She’d rather take the money. I started to leap to judgment, but stopped myself. However disappointed I was, I couldn’t fault her for taking it and starting a new life. I almost wondered if I’d have done the same if I had seen whatever they were willing to offer me in black and white, a check waiting to be deposited.

A few days later I rose with the sun and made my way to midtown to handle some paperwork before my lunch with Mike Baccard and the global chair of the firm. They’d signed the papers guaranteeing to sponsor the annual seminar for posterity in an amount not to exceed $2 million per annum, with a minimum of 1 percent of Stag River billings to be donated to the Klasko Women’s Initiative budget. We were meeting to discuss my experience, my goals for the initiative. I wondered whether they would ask me to sign an NDA. I never would, of course. They could either give me what I wanted and hope I never spoke up, or they could not give me what I wanted and be certain I’d go to the press. I assumed they were smart enough to proceed with the former.

As I approached my office, Anna stood to greet me. “Vivienne White is waiting for you in your office,” she said nervously.

I pushed through my door, and Vivienne glanced up briefly from my guest chair and gave a tight smile. Her gray Moreau bag was tossed carelessly on the floor beside her. I held my breath as I made my way to sit behind my desk.

She stared at me for a protracted moment. She’s heard about The Incident. She’s going to want to talk about it. My legs bounced, and when I pressed down on my knees, my palm bounced too.