James:
I step out of the shower and grab a towel. The window is steamed over, so I wipe a spot with my hand and take in the view.
28 years old, 6'3, broad shoulders. I'm fit, with a six pack and muscular arms. No one would accuse me of skipping leg day. My brown hair has a light wave, which I coax out with some curl enhancer. My beard is thick, and neatly trimmed. I know I'm handsome, with a strong jaw and romanesque nose.
I'm also a lawyer at one of the most prestigious firms in the country.
You'd think I could have any woman I wanted.
But the only one I want absolutely fucking hates me.
Tonight, I'm being inducted into the Coxwell Country Club. And by next month, Sara will be mine.
----
Sara:
The young paralegal barges into my office, a magazine in her hand. "It's here! Page 12!" She slaps the magazine on my desk.
I'm caught up in her excitement and open it up to page 12.
"30 Lawyers Under 30" the page reads. "No. 2: Sara Kent - human rights lawyer, Fletcher & Associates."
She is looking over my shoulder. She beams at me.
It's a huge honour to have been selected for this list. It's also a huge opportunity for the firm. We take on a lot of pro bono cases and my boss is constantly worried about making payroll. With this kind of publicity, we can attract a few paying clients.
The blurb under my name gives a brief biography. "Sara, age 27, graduated Yale Law in 2020. She began working for Mr. Fletcher upon graduation. She recently won a civil suit against the Federal prison system in Turner v. USA."
The photo is my firm headshot. I'm wearing a charcoal grey suit jacket and a burgundy blouse. My long brown hair is tied back in a pony tail. My makeup is natural and subdued. I'm looking into the camera, arms crossed. I look like I mean business.
We go through the rest of the list, gossiping about each young lawyer. We didn't know who else had been chosen until today.
I turn the page and see him. James St. Clair. Number 26.
I laugh knowing how much he'll hate being so far down the list after me.
"He's cute," the paralegal says behind me.
"In an entitled sexist way, sure."
"Oh my god, you know him?"
"Yeah. We graduated law together."
"I mean, you don't need to talk to him," she winks at me.
I close the magazine. "Uh huh. Can you please get me the Samson draft?"
She looks at me, eyebrows raised, and goes back to her desk.
When I'm sure she's gone, I reopen the magazine to James' photo.
She's not wrong. James is devastatingly handsome. But he's also one of the worst people I came across at law school - which is saying a lot.
I was attracted to him when I first met him. It lasted until I heard him speak. Entitled trust fund kid.
In first year, after a criminal law class, I overheard him joking loudly to friends that he could never be found guilty of rape because there's not one woman who wouldn't consent to sex with him.
I wrote a piece in our student paper about how harmful the joke was. I never named him, but enough people had heard him say it, so everyone knew it was him.
My piece kicked off an avalanche of other female students writing into the paper about their own experiences with sexual assault. They explained how rape jokes like the one James said made them feel unsafe and unwelcome.
The experience created a community of women. We went on to found a feminist collective, which got me started with human rights law.
James experienced some dark looks for a few weeks, but people mostly forgot about it. He had no problem womanizing his way through our classmates, including a few of my feminist friends. They always regretted the hook-up but never gave me details.
I often found him looking at me as if he wanted to say something. He never spoke to me since, even if we occasional run into each other at industry events.
---
James:
I arrive at the Club a few minutes before 8pm. I'm in my most expensive suit, a black bespoke set. I sign my name in the non-members' log for the last time and am led to the Business Centre.
By its name, you'd think the Business Centre is where you take a work call or set up your laptop while the wife tans at the pool. It's not.
Only platinum level members are allowed in, and only men of certain caliber are accepted. My $500,000 platinum deposit cleared this morning. I sign every paper the Matron, a strict looking older woman, puts in front of me. She's the only woman in the room.
I'm given a fob to access the grounds, including the Business Centre, which has numerous closed doors around it. I'm here for the door which leads to the spa. It's why I joined the Club.
The Matron puts away my membership paperwork and slides a binder across the table.
"Mr. St. Clair, I understand you have an interest in our Matchmaking services. Have you selected a wife?"
"Yes, I emailed over her details this afternoon."
The Matron swipes on her tablet. "Yes, Miss Kent. An excellent choice. Mr. St. Clair, are you familiar with our methods?"
"Only the most basic idea. I understand you can make any woman my wife, but not how. I should disclose that Sara dislikes me."
"I'll make a note and adjust our program accordingly. Mr. St. Clair, you would not be privy to this information before you became a Member, but we don't just make the women willing, we make them into whatever you desire."
