“Miss Astor—Miss Astor! Has there been any communication between you and your uncle?”

Cameras flash around me like a flurry of snow as news media personnel shoulder one another, fighting for the better shot. The butt-end of a microphone shoots closer than the others, nearly smudging my lipstick.

I keep a languid pace through the courthouse, the aggressive hollering of questions drowning out the clacking of my Prada pumps. But it’s quite hard to focus on the reporters, when the only thing running a feedback loop in my head is the judge’s final words—solidifying my team’s victory.

In the matter of New York v. Bass Mobile, the court orders the defendants to pay a sum of one-point-five billion in restitution.

“Of course not.” Swinging a left, the exit doors come into sight over the tops of their heads, where there are, without a doubt, even more news anchors waiting out on the streets. “That would be a conflict of interest.”

And that’s not a lie. I don’t know who got it in the public’s minds that all lawyers do is lie. But I don’t. At least, not in court. Especially not while representing the prosecution of the state of New York against none-other-than my own uncle, Oscar Bass, executive owner and founder of Bass Mobile.

Normally, a private firm lawyer like me would never represent the state, certainly not with familial ties to the opposing side, but they needed me. It’s no mystery why the state chose me, a junior partner at Astor Associates, to join the team—aside from my flawless track record, specialization in data privacy, and litigation portfolio that would make a senior partner think twice about going toe-to-toe with me in a courtroom.

The state wanted publicity. Tabloids, national headlines, to have as many eyes as possible on this trial. And that’s exactly what they got.

“What about the final verdict? Do you think it was fair?” another asks. “Never in history has New York imposed a restitution so high.”

One-point-five billion. I soak the number in one last time, before descending the marbled stairs. When I’m halfway down, I catch the buzzing mob of people out on the streets, waiting to ambush me as soon as I exit the double doors.

“It was more than fair. Judge Palmer acted in the best interest of the state,” I say, reaching the bottom step as both doors swing open by security on the other side. When my heels make contact with the sidewalk, I’m barraged by the bright summer sun and hundreds of camera flashes. “Although high, the restitution will serve as a deterrent for future misconduct and compensate those who fell victim to Bass Mobile’s prying eyes.”

Plunging my hand into my Birkin, I aim for the cars parked along the sidewalk, while the media swarms like schools of fish hugging the underbelly of a Great White. Sensing my departure, their questions grow in urgency.

No need to rush…

I slow my pace, a grin forming along my lips. This is the greatest achievement of my career, and I’ve never been one who shies away from the spotlight. In fact, I thrive in it, which is why I almost never advise my clients to settle before going to court. Because I’m that good—not only under the eyes of everyone in a courtroom, but under pressure and high stakes.

And there’s nothing I love more than watching the opposing side crumble, spiraling fear in the eyes of criminals. It doesn’t matter that they’re often big names on Silicon Avenue—belonging to wealthy families much like my own—and possess more money than they know what to do with. They all shrink like petty thieves and murderers when the law finally catches up with them. I recognized the same look on my uncle when I made a mockery of him and his slimy company in front of the whole nation.

It doesn’t matter that we’re related…

“Do you think Bass Mobile will recover from this?”

Evidence doesn’t lie.

“No.” My tone is matter-of-fact, as I open the driver’s side door of my McLaren, which swivels vertically before pointing directly toward the bright sky. Taking my seat low to the ground, I’m careful not to scrape my heels against the car’s fiery-red paint job. “Their reach goes beyond New York. There’s no doubt other states will follow suit.”

And chip away until not even a dollar remains of Silicon Avenue’s largest mobile manufacturer.

“Miss Astor! One more que—”

On the smooth seal of my door, their voices turn to quiet muffles. But even the car’s heavily tinted windows don’t minimize the flashes ringing along the beige interior. With my auburn bangs framing my face, I flash a smug grin that will surely be the front of every prominent newspaper tomorrow morning.

Flipping down the sun visor, I re-line my lips with deathly precision, a familiar haughtiness I’ve grown to accept coursing comfortably through my bones. From the corners of my vision, NYPD officers shoo the crowd away, granting me a clear exit.

My departure is swift, leaving the courthouse—and more than a few disappointed faces—in my dust. Not even a minute goes by, when my phone lights up through the opening of my purse.

Mom: Are we still on for tonight?

Down Goes the Giant

I stifle a laugh, reading the headline on my smartphone by ByteBuzz, Silicon Avenue’s most popular blog, managed by an anonymous pseudonym who writes scathing tech gossip. In only a few short hours, whoever-they-are has already posted about today.

A white-gloved hand slips a martini on the side table next to me. “Thank you, Eustace.” I smile at my parents’ butler—who happens to be an exceptional bartender—before he zips away.

Taking a sip, I observe the vacant room. My eyes roam over the checkered grooves of the chocolate Chesterfield sofas, then flick to the deep draperies encasing the night sky around large windowpanes. The area’s lighting is dim, like always, giving the quaint lounge an almost speakeasy vibe.

While this room’s a fairly unused section of my parents’ estate, I often found it the best place to study growing up, appreciating the green bankers lamps which allowed me to pretend I was in some pretentious law school before that became a reality.

Grabbing my glass by the stem, I return to the article.

And, no, I don’t mean giant, as in Goliath. Rather, down goes Bass Mobile, one of Silicon Avenue’s longest-standing tech giants. And by the hands of who, you might ask? Well, the recipient of that award is none other than Lauren Astor, who is no dwarfish David. But a calculated, merciless, data privacy lawyer, whose blood runs so icy, her litigation spares no soul.

Not even her own uncle’s, Oscar Bass.

I roll my eyes. Talk about hyping up the drama. I’m not that ruthless.

Retrieving the toothpick skewering a pair of olives from my clear beverage, I sink both between my lips.

The world must think that I backstabbed my entire family, my parents are ashamed of me, and I’m the soon-to-be black sheep of upper society. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. Both my parents and older brother supported my decision, and it was my mother who pushed the hardest that I accept the case.

Before responding to the state’s prosecution inquiry, I spoke with her first, since Oscar is her brother, after all. She confided in me that she’d suspected ill-intent from him for years but, giving him the benefit of the doubt, she ignored the hunch. But when my cousin’s fiancé, Hannah, exposed unequivocal evidence that Bass Mobile was mishandling data and spying on their customers and his own family through their smartphone cameras, there was no denying what a truly evil man he is.

The taste of gin on my tongue is strong as I continue down the article.

Lauren was spotted leaving the courthouse, media personnel trailing her like a swarm of drones, capturing her every move and answer. Departing in her signature red McLaren 600LT, she left behind a hefty fine for her uncle.

One-point-two billion dollars, to be exact.

And in case you were wondering, the hotshot lawyer didn’t acknowledge a single question about the surmised secret society.

Suspicious? I’d say so…

Yet another ridiculous rumor.

This one started around two years ago, when the evidence against Oscar Bass surfaced. Honestly, I shouldn’t be as shocked as I am by the outrageous theories. People are desperate to make things out to be bigger than they actually are. They’re so quick to equate shady CEOs—who have been around since the dawn of capitalism—to The Illuminati.

Nothing like plastering “secret society” on blog headlines to reel in the clicks and get people in a craze. As much as the media and raging conspiracy theorists want to believe there are mysterious, cloak-wearing masterminds puppeteering the general population like little green army men, there was not a single drop of evidence in our entire case to suggest such a thing.

My uncle was simply spying on prominent figures for his own twisted gain, using tactics like blackmail against his competitors. And in terms of the company as a whole mishandling user data, evidence proved they were only doing so to maximize profits by grossly overstepping privacy laws. All to better match customers with targeted advertisements. And, take it from a data privacy lawyer, that’s not unheard of around here.

So, no. For the hundredth time. There is, in fact, not a secret society on Silicon Avenue.

“Sorry I’m late, dear.” My mom’s soft voice lulls me from my train of thought. Rounding my chair, her modest teal dress comes into view before taking a seat on the opposing couch. “The time slipped away from me. You know how tumultuous planning our charity auction always is. Hiring the speakers, handling publicity, the press, the list goes on. You’d think after ten years it’d get easier.”

Eustace appears in a matter of seconds before I can reply, his dark suit faring well in the dim lighting. Clasping two hands behind his back, he addresses her. “Shall I uncork a bottle of Merlot, Madame Diana? Or bring you some hot tea?”

Crossing heel-clad ankles, her bright green eyes are like looking in a mirror when her gaze slides from him to me. “No wine for tonight. Bring the champagne, a fine bottle—the Roederer Rose will do. We have means for celebration!”

“Right away.” He nods, disappearing to the full bar across the room.

Pride swells in my chest, but I can’t dampen the subtle churn of guilt. “Oh, Mom… We don’t have to celebrate.”

“Nonsense.” Her face doesn’t fall an inch. “I’m sure you must think today was terribly hard for me. It was difficult, sure. I must admit, I still have compassion for my brother, but it’s a compassion reserved for the man he used to be and a hope that someday he’ll return to his old self. But I’ve come to terms with who he’s become—blackmailing politicians, abusing his own son… It’s for the greater good he’s behind bars and that his company goes down with him. So, yes. It is time to celebrate.”

With each of her words, the aching feeling lifts, and I mimic her smile. “Thank you, Mom. I couldn’t have done it without your encouragement.”

“Having you on that trial was crucial in putting us on the right side of the public eye. We couldn’t allow ourselves to be a part of such a scandal, family or not. But always remember the most important reason. You accomplished what all of us in high positions can only hope to do—you helped society. Don’t allow the media to twist your heart any other way.”

I mull over her remarks as Eustace returns with our bubbly flutes.

Although she’s a former psychology professor turned philanthropist, meaning uplifting speeches are literally her job, her words are genuine. They take me back to a time when I was only in middle school, yearning to be like my late grandfather—her father—who practiced law. Never once did her support waver when I studied to take the LSATs, when I attended law school, or when I came on as a junior associate at Astor Associates, the firm her father founded.

Yet sometimes it’s hard swallowing such praise from her. If only she knew the vanity and egotism ever-flowing through my veins. I won’t entertain the notion that the case didn’t pique my interest because of its high-profile nature and the way it would glisten in my portfolio. Oftentimes, I catch my drive to excel, to win, being more for the sake of winning, instead of my client’s or society’s sake.

But victory and ambition go hand-in-hand with being a shark.

“To Lauren, my only daughter.” She raises a glass, her slender arm splitting between strands of her copper locks. “May today’s verdict serve as a cornerstone to look back on for confidence. Cheers to a long line of career successes.”

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