Partner Material

PARTNER MATERIAL SOPHIA TRAVERS Copyright © 2023 by Sophia Travers All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Created with Vellum To my husband, who, as it turns out, must really love romance novels. CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 47. Epilogue Also by Sophia Travers 1 Margo Ten measly pages sat between me and freedom. Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. My head snapped up. “Can you not, Cynthia? Please, I just need to finish this agreement before I wither away and die.” I was so tired and so close to finishing. Just ten more pages to review and then we’d be able to get this frustrating deal signed. “Sorry.” Cynthia grimaced and put her pen down. “The revisions to this agreement are killing me. Of course the partner asked for this to be completed a week faster than the client requested. I swear these people choose deadlines solely to torture me.” She waved her hand in the air like “these people” were all around us. I sighed and raised my mug. “Hear hear.” It was like this every year. Every year we assumed it would be better. Every December first I got frantic emails from clients trying to finish out the year. The lawyers were always last to cross the finish line. I pictured my clients toasting each other with glasses of bourbon around a roaring fire and punched my computer keys a little harder. “Jeez Margo. You’re going to break the damn thing. Be careful or you’ll be hand writing comments and faxing them like Gerald does.” I couldn't help but laugh. Gerald was the most senior partner in our group and my primary boss, and his handwriting was notoriously terrible. Every associate had been put through the wringer with him at one point. Luckily I had graduated from that circle of hell years ago, and into this one. Cynthia and I were still associates, not partners, but we were at least two of the three most senior associates at the firm. Instead of turning handwritten comments to documents and taking notes on client calls, we ran deals, did all the major negotiation, came up with creative strategies to win and generally kicked ass and got rich while doing it. It was a pretty awesome gig when the hours were manageable and the clients were pleasant. But something about December made clients crazed and deadline-oriented, even more so than usual. So here we were, Christmas deadlines looming, bags under our eyes and our hair in messy buns, tapping away at our keyboards. “Maybe this will be the last holiday we spend being tormented.” Cynthia sounded hopeful. I raised my head. “I don’t think so, Cynth. Neither of us is getting fired any time soon.” She grimaced. Every year at this time, the prospect of being fired became freeing. We had both fantasized about doing something so insane that we would be fired on the spot. She favored a “fuck you” email to opposing counsel. I favored gluing Andrew Markman’s office door shut with superglue. We’d never do it, though. It was a well-worn fantasy for when work was too much to bear. “Do you think Andrew is here, or already home in Connecticut?” “Speak of the devil. I was just daydreaming about throwing his computer off the roof.” Cynthia giggled. “He is truly heinous. I cannot believe how he just demanded to be staffed on the Aggregate Shipping deal, like he is god’s gift to private equity.” “Not only that, but he got every secretary a massive gift basket, even mine. He’s trying to steal her from me. Over my dead body.” I narrowed my eyes in displeasure at the thought of enemy number one. Andrew Markman. He was the third remaining associate from our class and my competition for partner. Cynthia was just here to make money while she figured out her life, but Andrew wanted what I wanted. And unfortunately for us, only one of us could make partner. The firm had never made two partners in a year. Profits per partner hovered around three million dollars per partner, annually, and they kept that number high by keeping the ranks thin. Like most firms of this size, our firm operated on an up-or-out model. You either made partner or you got fired, no in between. Andrew, Cynthia and I had been here since law school, for eight long years. For associates who had started at our firm, that eight year mark meant partner decisions. The committee typically announced their decisions right after the billable hours and performance reviews were in for year end. We would know by the end of January which one us would make it, maybe even sooner. I knew the firm was contemplating a switch to the dreaded dual-partner track system, and I was determined to make it in before I was a partner in name only, earning slightly more than I did now but with a huge marketing load and more responsibility than ever. No, I wanted to be sitting there at the table, with an equal vote to the other partners and earning seven figures, an unthinkable amount of money for anyone in the Clarke family. Meanwhile, Andrew probably pulled that much out of his couch cushions.