Monday arrived faster then I expected.
The sun shone gently through my bedroom windows, birds sang outside, the estate gardens rustled with warm morning breeze—and none of that mattered.
Because today, I was going back.
I stared at my reflection as I got ready, choosing a neatly pressed blouse and blazer that made me look competent enough to mask my internal screaming.
"You can do this," I told myself. "You've done it before. You survived it before. This time will be… different."
I paused.
"No," I corrected. "This time will be worse. Richer, but worse."
Still, I finished getting ready, grabbed my bag, and headed downstairs.
The driver greeted me with a bow.
"Miss Violet, ready for work?"
"No," I said honestly. "But please drive."
The Hawthorne Law Firm was not a building. It was a monument.
Tall, sleek, and aggressively shiny, it towered over the city as if daring other firms to try and compete. The entrance lobby was marbled, echoing faintly with each step. Everything smelled like perfume, money, and mild dread.
As I approached the reception desk, the woman behind it stiffened. Like visibly stiffened.
"G-good morning, Miss Hawthorne," she said, voice trembling slightly. "Welcome back."
"Good morning," I replied politely, offering a small smile.
She blinked once.
Twice.
Three times.
Then she glanced around as if expecting hidden cameras.
Right.
Original Violet probably came to the office once every three months and yelled.
I stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the twelfth floor—Litigation.
The doors opened with a gentle ding.
Inside the office, everything was sleek and modern. Lawyers rushed past with stressed expressions, phones ringing, printers humming, papers flying.
Ah yes.
Legal Hell.
I was home.
"Miss Hawthorne!" a voice squeaked.
I turned to see a young man standing frozen mid-stride, holding a stack of files. He stared at me like I had materialized out of smoke.
"I didn't know—you were—coming today," he stammered.
"Surprise," I said weakly.
He stared another five seconds before taking two steps back and nearly tripping over a chair.
Wow.
People were terrified of the original Violet.
This was going to be harder than I thought.
I made my way toward the glass-walled office assigned to me—yes, I had my own office, a fact that physically hurt the version of me that once worked at a shared folding table.
The moment I stepped inside, several employees scattered like pigeons.
I stood alone in the empty office, slowly lowering my bag onto the desk.
"…This is fine," I told myself. "They'll warm up to me. I'm friendly. I'm approachable. I'm—"
A woman appeared at the door, clearing her throat cautiously.
"Miss Hawthorne?"
I straightened. "Yes?"
"I'm your senior attorney mentor. Sandra Lee."
"Oh—nice to meet you!"
Sandra looked like someone who hadn't slept since the year began. Her suit was immaculate, but her eyes had that glazed look of a person who had long since replaced their blood with caffeine.
She blinked at my cheerful tone.
Then blinked again.
A third blink for good measure.
"Are you… feeling well?" she asked carefully.
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes?"
She nodded slowly, the way someone might nod while edging away from a large, unpredictable animal.
"Well. Let's… begin the orientation."
Sandra guided me through the office with the stiff over-politeness of someone trying not to trigger something.
"This is the common area. You used to… dislike it."
"Right," I said. "I don't anymore."
Sandra hesitated. "Really?"
"Yes."
She frowned at the tiled floor as if unsure how to process that information.
We passed cubicles where junior attorneys peeked over the walls like meerkats. When I waved at them, they ducked so fast I heard someone hit their knee.
We reached the conference room, where a presentation on 'Litigation Protocol: Efficiency, Precision, Ethics' was prepared.
Sandra cleared her throat. "I know you've been here before, but your father asked that we refresh your training."
Translation: The original Violet was hopeless.
I nodded. "Sure."
She stared, surprised. "You… don't mind?"
"Not at all."
Sandra's brow furrowed so deeply she looked offended by my cooperation.
One hour later, she looked even more confused.
Because I was taking notes.
Real notes.
I asked clarifying questions. I nodded at appropriate moments. I did not throw a tantrum. I did not complain. I did not ask to leave early because I was "emotionally bored."
At one point, she just… stopped mid-sentence and stared at me.
"Is something wrong?" I asked.
"No, I just—" She blinked. "Who are you?"
I coughed. "Pardon?"
"I mean—! I mean—of course you're Violet. But you're… not how I remembered. You're being…"
"Normal?"
"Yes," she whispered. "It's very alarming."
Right. Great start.
By lunchtime, every lawyer on the floor had stared at me at least once. Some avoided eye contact. Others peeked from behind computer screens. One person actually gasped when I said "good morning."
I ate alone in my office, staring at my bento box prepared by the estate chef.
"This is fine," I told myself. "I will build goodwill. Slowly. They'll realize I'm not a menace."
Then I accidentally smiled at someone in the hallway and they dropped their coffee.
Okay. So maybe this would take longer.
After work, the driver picked me up from the office. When I stepped into the car, exhaustion washed over me.
Not from the work.
From the social acrobatics required to undo the original Violet's reputation.
I slumped back in the seat and rubbed my face.
"Everything is fine," I whispered to myself. "Manageable. I just need to avoid Marian Stark. And avoid scandals. And avoid being fired. And avoid accidentally starting a war—"
A notification dinged.
I nearly threw the phone out the window.
Slowly… very slowly… I unlocked it.
Unknown: Did you receive my message?
My heart stopped.
Unknown—or in other words, Marian Stark.
My finger hovered over the block button. Trembled. Lowered.
Because blocking her felt more dangerous.
I threw the phone into my bag and clutched my chest.
"Oh my god. why is she so persistent." I said, rolling my eyes
I groaned loudly and let myself slide down the leather seat like a melting popsicle.
The driver did not comment.
He had probably seen stranger things from the Hawthorne family.
When I got home, Mack was already in the living room, flipping through files. He glanced up as I walked in.
"How was your first day?"
I opened my mouth.
Closed it.
Opened it again.
"…Traumatic," I said.
"One of the junior associates fainted when I smiled."
Mack blinked. "Fainted?"
"Yes."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Violet, perhaps refrain from startling them."
"I didn't STARTLE them, I just—existed!"
He stared. I coughed.
"Anyway," I added quickly, "did you need something?"
Mack nodded, folding a page. "The charity gala is in three days. Father wants you presentable. And attentive."
My stomach fell through the floor.
"Also," he continued, "Marian Stark will be there."
I went completely still.
Mack paused, raising an eyebrow. "Are you alright?"
"Yes," I lied. "Totally. Perfectly. Absolutely. Completely. Entirely fine."
He stared.
"You're sweating."
"No I'm not."
"You're pale."
"No I'm not."
"You're shaking."
"NO I'M—okay, that one might be true."
He sighed, tired. "Just stay out of trouble."
I nodded.
"I will."
And I meant it.
I would avoid Marian Stark like she was radioactive.
Like she was a trap laid by the universe.
Or fate.
Or the author.
Or all three in collaboration.
That night, I collapsed onto my bed again, staring at the ceiling.
Work had exhausted me.
Life had exhausted me.
The gala terrified me.
Marian haunted me.
I closed my eyes and whispered:
"I just want peace. And money. And sleep. Why is that so hard?"
The universe did not answer.
Which meant tomorrow would probably be worse.