Howl for Justice

My name commands attention, even whispered behind mirrored walls. Mara Wolfe. I sense the weight of their eyes on me, catch the reflection of their stunned admiration. Before my floor arrives, they already fear me. The girl with the coffee spills half of it on the way to her mouth, staining her blouse. The scent of bitter chicory and burnt sugar wafts through the cramped elevator, mingling with an underlying tang of nerves. She daubs at the mess with frantic little swipes of a napkin, her gaze fixed on my shoes, as if they might shatter the tension with a single step. "Mara Wolfe," someone repeats in a near reverent tone. I let the name hang in the air, acknowledging it with the barest flicker of an eyelid. Even without looking, I can picture their expressions: the mix of admiration and envy, awe and discomfort. It is a look I am intimately familiar with. Their curiosity gnaws at them, an insatiable itch. I feel it in the sidelong glances, the darting eyes. What is she doing here? Did she hear about the merger? Her last case was genius. A hundred variations of the same hungry question, never quite bold enough to be spoken aloud. "Do you think she's here to meet with him?" one whispers, louder than they realize. "Who knows with her," replies another, equally audible. There is a nervous laugh, quickly stifled. They do not know if they should be amused or afraid, and I am in no hurry to enlighten them. The less they know, the more they want. The more they want, the more they talk. The more they talk, the easier it is to stay three steps ahead. At the ground floor, they part like water around a rock, giving me a clear path. I step out without a word, and the glass doors close behind me. In the solitude of the lobby, my phone vibrates, displaying the familiar yellow banner of a priority notification. Derek, my husband. Not for the first time, I debate whether to respond or ignore it entirely. I slide the phone back into my bag, deferring the decision. I do not have time to entertain Derek's machinations right now. He will have to wait, and he knows it. My car is already waiting, engine purring. The driver nods, opening the door for me, but I wave him off with a curt gesture. "I'll walk today." My words are the first I have spoken since leaving the penthouse, their weight slicing through the air. His mouth opens in protest, then snaps shut at my raised brow. "Very well, Ms. Wolfe," he concedes, retreating to his seat. The street is uncharacteristically quiet, still slumbering in the early morning haze. I welcome the chance to move, to stretch the instincts that are leashed so tightly in the confined spaces I must inhabit. The pounding of my heels on the pavement matches the rhythm of my thoughts, driving me forward. Let them whisper, I think. Let them wonder. As long as I keep them guessing, they will never suspect the truth. My phone vibrates again, more insistent this time. I ignore it, my stride quickening. My arrival at the building feels like stepping into a well-fitted suit, the perfect integration of myself with the structure around me. Every detail is precisely as it should be, curated with meticulous care. My shoes clack in reassuring cadence as I move through the lobby, an announcement of my presence more powerful than any receptionist's introduction. I belong here, in this high-stakes world where each interaction is a chess move and every expression a strategic asset. They know my reputation. Most have heard the stories—my swift rise through the ranks, the whispered deals, the dazzling victories in the courtroom that left opposing firms shattered. Some have even ventured to work with me, glimpsing firsthand the controlled burn of my ambition. They have given me many names: Ice Queen. She-Wolf. Some are meant as slights, others as grudging respect. I wear them all with the same implacable precision as the structured suits that line my closet. What they do not know, what I have worked so carefully to conceal, is the other name. The one that prowls just beneath the surface, hungering for release. That Mara is kept in check, a creature of strict discipline and iron-willed control. It has to be this way. It has always been this way. At the threshold of the elevator, I pause. My eyes catch the gleam of glass and steel as the doors slide shut. For an instant, a ghost of my reflection stares back—amber-flecked eyes, lips curved in a too-sharp smile. I do not flinch. I have nothing to fear from my own shadow. I wake before the alarm, my senses keen and sharp in the pre-dawn stillness. The sheets are cool against my skin, silk sliding over the warmth of my body as I turn to the muted gray light seeping through the window. A heavy mist wraps the city outside, shrouding the distant skyline in soft, secretive shadows. My eyes trace the familiar contours of the room, the angles and surfaces as clean and structured as the inside of my mind. The sharp edges of furniture stand in quiet contrast to the muted luxury of my surroundings, an ordered sanctuary far removed from the chaos I fight daily to contain. The first hum of traffic stirs beneath the apartment, the city awakening like a great beast stretching itself from slumber. I swing my legs over the side of the bed, bare feet meeting the warmth of the hardwood with practiced silence. In the hush, I hear the measured tick of my wristwatch from across the room, the low mechanical purr that syncs itself to the pulse at my throat. From the corner of my eye, I catch the yellow glow of my phone on the nightstand—three missed calls. Derek is insistent this morning. I ignore him again, reaching instead for the remote that brings the room to life around me. A symphony of quiet, modern automation responds to my touch: lights warming to an even, flattering glow, music whispering through the sound system like an echo of my own thoughts. Bach, this morning. I feel baroque. In the sleek expanse of the kitchen, I grind coffee beans with measured precision, the scent rising to meet me in dark, rich plumes. Each step of my routine is exacting, honed to a ritual that leaves nothing to chance. I inhale deeply, savoring the earthiness that clings to the air before turning to the rest of my morning. The closet greets me with orderly rows of fabric and color, a testament to my exacting nature. Deep jewel tones and soft, neutral palettes line the shelves, each piece carefully selected to project a different facet of my persona. In the back corner, hidden in the shadow of the door, a soft leather jacket hangs among the business wear, its presence both foreign and familiar. I do not touch it. Not today. My choice is deliberate: a tailored suit in charcoal, crisp and unyielding. It wraps me in the armor of my own making, a barrier between what the world sees and what it never can. The silk blouse beneath is a whisper of contrast, soft against my skin, cool against the rising heat of my instinct. Every movement is part of a choreography I know by heart, each piece falling into place with surgical accuracy. Makeup applied with a surgeon's hand, never too much, never too little. I measure time not in minutes but in the even, practiced strokes of a mascara wand, the click of lipstick meeting its case. A discrete calendar is tucked in the back of the desk drawer. I catch a glimpse of it as I lay out today's briefs: the moon waxing, gaining fullness like the secret I carry within. I do not linger on the thought, but its mark is there, brief as the flash of amber that skims my reflection in the mirror. Back in the kitchen, the coffee is perfectly brewed, the first scalding sip scorching a trail down my throat. The smooth metal of the kettle glints as I pour hot water over carefully sliced fruit, a fragrant steam enveloping me like memory. I file my nails as the tea steeps, breathing in the clove-scented sweetness, watching them sharpen again before my eyes. Another subtle reminder. Another detail that requires control. I gather my briefcase with swift, decisive motion, double-checking the day's agenda on my phone. This time, I let it flicker across the screen, do not dismiss the notification that scrolls across: Derek. We need to talk. It's important. A trace of irritation mingles with the resignation that always accompanies his messages. He never accepts that I have no time to play the games he so enjoys. Final touches. Watch on wrist. Belt snug against my waist. Everything in place, everything in order. A deep breath, steadying and sure. A glance in the hallway mirror confirms what I already know: the creature of myth and precision, Mara Wolfe, is ready to face the day. I hesitate at the elevator, my reflection briefly questioning me with those strange, knowing eyes. They shift as I turn away, amber flecks subsiding into deep, contemplative brown. Derek's words echo in my mind as I reach for the door: It's important. There is an edge to them, a hook. Something he dangles in front of me, certain I will bite. I remind myself again to ignore it, even as curiosity twines itself with the pull of familiar mistrust. Let him wait. Let the world wait. I have more urgent things to attend to. The door clicks shut with a soft, satisfying finality, a barrier between the ordered calm of my home and the restless ambition of the city outside. I am poised on the brink of both, the delicate balance between what I am and what I pretend to be. Mara Wolfe, they will whisper as I arrive. What is she doing here? My favorite question. My favorite answer: I am here to win.