The Wrong Woman

Chapter Two: Fighting Battles

Sofia Pov

By the time I unlocked the door to the legal aid office the next morning, my coffee was already cold. Not that it mattered. I would drink it anyway. Sleep had become a luxury I couldn't afford months ago.

Between clients, court appearances, paperwork, and trying to keep our struggling office alive, eight hours of uninterrupted sleep felt like a fantasy.

I pushed open the door and immediately regretted arriving early. Three people were already waiting. A mother holding a crying toddler. An elderly man clutching a folder stuffed with documents. A teenager nervously pacing near the reception desk. It wasn't even eight in the morning.

"Good morning," I said.

Three exhausted faces turned toward me.

The elderly man stood first. "Miss Bennett, thank God you're here."

I smiled despite the knot forming in my stomach. Another long day.

"Let's see what we've got."

Two hours later, I was already behind schedule. My desk looked like a battlefield. Case files covered every available inch of space. Unpaid invoices sat in one pile. Court documents sat in another. The legal aid center wasn't doing well. Everyone knew it. Funding had been reduced again.

Donors were disappearing. The rent was overdue. And somehow we were expected to help more people than ever.

A knock sounded against my office door. I looked up. Maria stepped inside.

At sixty-three years old, she had spent more time fighting for disadvantaged families than most attorneys spent practicing law.

She was also the closest thing I had to a mentor.

"You look terrible."

I laughed. "Good morning to you too."

"I'm serious."

She sat down across from me. "When was the last time you took a day off?"

"I don't remember."

"That's the problem."

I leaned back in my chair.

"If I take a day off, who's handling these cases?"

Maria glanced around the room. The answer was obvious. Nobody.

The office was already stretched beyond capacity. Her expression softened.

"How's Daniel?"

The smile disappeared from my face. Immediately.

My younger brother had become the center of my world after our parents died. At twenty-one, he should have been worrying about college classes and relationships. Instead, he spent most of his time attending medical appointments. "Same as last week."

Maria nodded slowly. Neither of us needed to say more. Treatment was expensive. Far more expensive than I could comfortably afford. Every month felt like another battle. Every bill felt like another mountain. And somehow I was expected to keep climbing.

My phone buzzed. Daniel. A smile instantly appeared.

"Speak of the devil."

I answered. "Hey."

"Before you ask, yes, I took my medication."

I rolled my eyes.

"I wasn't going to ask."

"You were absolutely going to ask."

He wasn't wrong. "How are you feeling?"

"Good."

The answer came too quickly. I knew that tone. It was the same tone I used whenever someone asked if I was okay. A lie designed to make people worry less. We both knew it. Neither of us called the other out on it.

"Don't work too hard," he said.

"You say that every day."

"Because you never listen."

I smiled. "Love you."

"Love you too."

The call ended.

For a moment I stared at the phone. Then reality returned. There was work to do. Always work.

A loud voice echoed from the reception area. I frowned. Another argument. Great.

Stepping outside my office, I found a man shouting at one of our volunteers. His expensive suit immediately caught my attention. Not because it looked good. Because men dressed like that rarely walked into legal aid centers unless they were causing problems.

"I've been waiting for thirty minutes." The volunteer looked terrified.

I stepped forward. "Can I help you?"

The man turned. His expression immediately shifted.

"You the attorney?"

"One of them."

He shoved a folder into my hands. "I represent Baxter Development Group."

The name alone was enough to make my stomach tighten. Baxter Development. One of the largest property developers in the city. And currently involved in a lawsuit that threatened dozens of low-income families. Wonderful.

"What do you want?" I asked.

He smiled. Not a friendly smile. The kind lawyers exchanged when they knew exactly what they were doing.

"We'd like your clients to reconsider their position."

Translation: Back down. Walk away. Let powerful people win. Again.

I handed the folder back. "They aren't interested."

His smile faded. "You haven't even looked."

"I don't need to."

For a moment neither of us spoke. Then he shrugged.

"We tried being reasonable."

I crossed my arms. "Did you?"

The man stared at me. Clearly not accustomed to hearing the word no. Eventually he turned and walked away.

The office remained silent until the door closed behind him. One of the volunteers exhaled loudly.

"That was terrifying."

I couldn't disagree. But fear was a luxury people like me couldn't afford. Not when entire families depended on us.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. Meetings. Paperwork. Phone calls. More paperwork.

By six o'clock my eyes burned from staring at documents. By eight o'clock most of the office had gone home. I remained. Naturally.

A newspaper sat forgotten on the corner of my desk. I picked it up while stretching. The front page immediately caught my attention. A photograph covered half the page. A smiling couple stood surrounded by reporters and flashing cameras. The headline was impossible to miss.

WHITMORE HEIR ANNOUNCES ENGAGEMENT

I rolled my eyes. Another rich politician celebrating another carefully staged milestone. My attention returned to the article despite myself. Caleb Whitmore. Future political star. Business heir. Golden boy.

Apparently the city couldn't get enough of him. The accompanying photograph showed him standing beside his fiancée. Perfect suit. Perfect smile. Perfect life.

At least according to the newspaper. I tossed the paper onto my desk. People like Caleb Whitmore lived in a completely different universe. A universe where money solved problems.

Where powerful families controlled outcomes. Where doors opened automatically. People like me spent our lives cleaning up the damage left behind by people like them.

The thought lingered as I packed my bag. Outside, night had fallen over the city.

The streets glowed beneath rows of streetlights. I locked the office and started walking toward the subway. Completely unaware that somewhere across the city, Caleb Whitmore was thinking about the woman

he had seen outside the courthouse.

And completely unaware that our worlds were already moving toward a collision neither of us would be able to stop.