“Then you go home. You cash your $10,000 check. You struggle for another 2 years until you get your doctorate, and then you beg for a tenure-track position at a mid-tier university.”
“And if I do it?”
Preston pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote a figure on the back of the folder. “$50,000 consulting fee for 1 night’s work. Payable immediately. Cash, wire, crypto. I don’t care.”
Casey stared at the number. $50,000 was a year of her mother’s treatments. It was her student loans. It was freedom. She looked at Preston. He was not looking at her with pity or lust. He looked at her like a tool, a weapon he wanted to use, and strangely that felt like the most respectful thing anyone had done to her in years.
“I need coffee,” Casey said. “Black. And a highlighter.”
Preston smiled, the first time it reached his eyes. “Drive,” he told the driver.
The offices of High Tower Holdings were on the 40th floor of a glass monolith in Midtown. At 1:00 a.m., the city below slept, but the boardroom was lit and waiting. Casey felt ridiculous in her black waitress pants and sensible shoes, though she had swapped the wet white shirt for a gray cashmere sweater that Preston’s assistant pulled from an emergency wardrobe.
Inside the boardroom, 4 men sat around a table that cost more than Casey’s childhood home, wearing suits that had not wrinkled despite the late hour. They were partners of Sterling and Finch, the most aggressive law firm in New York. When Preston walked in with Casey, the atmosphere shifted from serious to confused.
“Preston,” said the lead lawyer, Bradley Thorne, with slicked-back silver hair and a tan that declared weekends in St. Barts. “We were just finalizing the liability waivers. Who is this?” He looked at Casey as if she were the cleaning lady who had wandered into the wrong room.
“This is my independent consultant,” Preston said, pulling out a chair for Casey at the head of the table. “She’s going to review the German addendums.”
Bradley chuckled condescendingly. “Preston, with all due respect, we have 3 native German speakers on our team in Berlin. We’ve vetted the documents. Who is she? Which firm is she with?”
“She’s with the firm of none of your damn business,” Preston said, sitting down. “Give her the files.”
Bradley hesitated, then slid a thick stack of documents across the mahogany. He smirked at his colleagues, amused, as if their billionaire client were indulging an eccentric impulse. Casey ignored them. She put on cheap drugstore reading glasses and opened the first document.
The room went silent except for a ticking clock and the sharp scratch of her highlighter. 10 minutes passed, then 20. Bradley checked his watch. “Preston, really. We have a signing ceremony at 9:00 a.m. This is a waste of time. The girl is clearly just reading for show.”
Casey did not look up. “The term ‘vündliche Kaution,’” she said aloud.
Bradley blinked. “Excuse me?”
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