As the Mercedes entered the tunnel to JFK, I turned off my phone.

Not just silenced—completely off. I held the power button, watching the screen fade from light to dark, like extinguishing a miniature star.

For the past five years, this phone had been my alarm bell.

Julian’s schedule, company emergencies, Chloe’s endless string of “minor crises”… every buzz meant I had to drop what I was doing to fill some gap.

Now, it was just a cold piece of glass and metal.

The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Ms. Vance, would you like assistance with check-in?”

“No, thank you.” I handed him my passport and ticket confirmation. “I’ll handle it.”

The VIP line was quiet. The airline agent did a double-take when she saw my documents—maybe she recognized me, or maybe she was just struck by the destination on the boarding pass: “Paris - Charles de Gaulle.”

People flying to Paris at this hour often have stories they don’t want to face in New York.

In the lounge, I opened my laptop and started on the first batch of work emails from Arthur.

Sterling’s Paris office was bidding to handle a cross-border acquisition for a century-old French luxury brand. The deal was worth 1.2 billion euros, and our competitors included Clifford Chance and Freshfields.

The file noted their chief legal officer was a tough nut to crack—he’d once grilled Google’s legal team into silence at an EU antitrust hearing.

I poured a black coffee and began reading the case files.

This feeling of immersion was something I’d missed. I wasn’t “Julian’s wife” or “former consultant to Thorne Capital.” I was just Harper Vance, Esquire, back on her battlefield.

The Latin legal terms, the case citations, the risk clauses… they were like secret codes from old friends, awakening a dormant instinct within me.

When the boarding call came, I had already marked three potential negotiation breakthroughs.

The first-class flight attendant recognized me, but she was professional. She simply smiled, took my coat, and asked no extra questions.

The moment the cabin door closed, a strange sense of relief washed over me. At thirty thousand feet, no one could find me.

Not unless they also bought a ticket.

As the plane ascended, I looked out the window.

The lights of New York shrank into a blurry golden smudge below the clouds, like a spilled inkblot.

Five years ago, I had left Yale for New York just like this, with a summa cum laude transcript and a heart full of fire, thinking this city was my promised land.

And it was.

I just never expected the trial in the promised land would be love.

The flight attendant offered me champagne. I shook my head. “Sparkling water, please.”

She looked surprised—first-class passengers rarely turned down Dom Pérignon. But I needed a clear mind, not the false warmth of alcohol.

In the past two years, I’d drunk enough liquor for “social obligations” and “smoothing things over” to develop a physical aversion to any amber-colored liquid.

After we reached cruising altitude, I put on my noise-canceling headphones and turned on the screen in front of me.

In the movie list, the cover for *Eat, Pray, Love* popped up. Julia Roberts eating pasta in the Roman sun.

I smiled, skipped it, and chose *The Devil’s Advocate*—Al Pacino as Satan, roaring in a courtroom: “Vanity, is definitely my favorite sin.”

Fitting for the moment.

Halfway through, I started to feel drowsy. I flattened my seat and pulled up the blanket.

As I drifted off, I remembered the first time I met Julian.

It wasn't at Yale. We were there at the same time, but he was a star at the business school, and I was a nerd at the law school—the kind who could spend 48 hours straight in the library.

We truly met three years after graduation, at a Sterling Law annual party.

He was there as a client, impeccably dressed in a Tom Ford suit, holding a whiskey and talking with Arthur in a corner.

I was walking by with a glass of champagne when I heard him say, “…the acquisition structure needs a more aggressive tax strategy. The current proposal is too conservative.”

I stopped.

“Aggressive often means risky,” I interjected, without even looking at him. “Last year’s ruling in *Winston v. SEC* shows the IRS is tightening its standards for cross-border interest deductions. What you call ‘aggressive’ could very well be deemed tax evasion within the next three years.”

Julian turned around.

In the countless times I’ve replayed that moment, I’ve tried to describe the look in his eyes—not annoyance at being interrupted, not a flirtatious once-over, but the sharp, excited gaze of a hunter spotting a rare prize.

“Harper Vance,” he read the name tag on my chest, a smirk playing on his lips. “Arthur always talks about you. Says you’re the most brilliant student he’s had in thirty years.”

“He exaggerates,” I said, taking a sip of my champagne.

“I don’t think so.” His eyes fell to my glass. “But champagne doesn’t suit you. You should be drinking Macallan 25—complex, rich, needs to be savored.”

It was a cheesy line. But I was twenty-eight, fresh off winning my first international arbitration case, and my confidence was sailing high. So I said, “Macallan is too sweet. I prefer Laphroaig—smoky, peaty, one sip and you know it doesn’t try to please anyone.”

Julian laughed. A real laugh, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“I have a merger deal next week, about to sign the letter of intent,” he said. “I need a legal advisor who understands cross-border tax. Interested in talking?”

That was the beginning.

A love affair that started with a debate over whiskey, and ended with the farce of a collapsing champagne tower.