The morning breeze in Meadow Hills feels different depending on the circumstances of your day. Right now I'm almost certain it is an angry effect, more like a whirlwind but without the storm, or an angry teenage mother to her fifteen year old, or maybe like the Associate Partner's eyes which will burn fiercely at me without hurt at my incessant tardiness when I finally arrive work.
I've been tardy for weeks. It's not that I'm being disrespectful, my Eastern mother would scold me vehemently if she were here.
The chiming of the bus stirred me to reality, and the never ending awakening to my inner voice screaming for a new SUV.
My dad's beaten down Renault was the only transportation means to work and no way in hell was I choosing that.
As I huddled out of the bus, I strode in awareness of the magnificence of the building that was my office.
Lincoln Willow Legal.
Every young and uprising lawyer dreamed to boast of at least an interview here, but here I was, standing before this building privileged for the golden opportunity of calling it my office.
The parking lot was grand, luxury drove in today. Whispering in quiet echoes why I needed a new vehicle.
Walking toward the entrance, heels clicking against the impossibly dark asphalt, I felt the weight of it. The impossible distance between hierarchy.
At the far end, the Junior Associates & Interns' Corner. My own breath felt shorter here. I saw the rows of clean Corollas and cars that looked like they were holding their breath, waiting for a promotion. I recognized the owners; the ones who walked with their heads down, coffee in hand, trying to memorize every precedent before they hit the glass doors.
Moving up felt like watching a time-lapse of a career, however unconsciously I did look up at the Associates' Lane, where the air changes. The C-Classes and Accords were more than vehicles, they carried hope of progress, voices whispering "I've arrived, but I haven't won yet." I peered into the window close to me and saw a stack of case files on the passenger seat.
Curiosity or perhaps envy trailed my eyes to the Equity Partners' Section. Silver BMVs and pearl-white Audis sat in perfect, predatory lines. These weren't just cars; they were the physical manifestation of eighty-hour weeks and ruthless cross-examinations. They didn't just sit there, if you listened closely, you could hear the hum of those who ache for more but have to wait their turn.
Under the glass and steel canopy, the Senior Partners' Row was silent. Luxury isn't loud, it's in the details, and the details of the matte charcoal Range Rovers and navy Bentleys didn't need to scream. They had the terrifying calm of a judge's gavel. This was the finish line, polished to a mirror shine and smelling of old money, leather and years of hard work.
Suddenly…I stopped.
The space sat right in the transition, tucked between the absolute power of the Seniors and the hungry ambition of the Equity partners. It had no bronze plaque. No name. No title.
Just the Rolls-Royce.
I had always believed this edition existed only in the blogs.
It was a deep, ink-black boat-tails, sitting there like a secret everyone already knew. It wasn't as loud as a Bentley, nor as aggressive as a BMV. It was just... there. Perfectly maintained, restrained, and absolutely certain of its right to be exactly where it was.
Seeing it made my pulse skip in a way the Bentleys couldn't. I would speak about this richly exotic mode of transport like an obsessed fan (because I honestly am) but I was at a loss for words.
As I walked past it, catching my own reflection in the tinted glass, I realized I was walking a little straighter, as if the aura of the vehicle had somehow changed my personality.
I was trying to adjust my bag, feeling like an interloper in this cathedral of steel and glass, when the soft chirp-chirp of a remote unlock echoed off the canopy.
My heart did a slow, heavy roll in my chest.
The driver's side door of the black Rolls-Royce swung open with a heavy, pressurized thud. A Man stepped out.
I briskly walked to the elevator in a haste to avoid being caught. The man stepping out of the black Rolls Royce wasn't just a lawyer; he was a physical manifestation of the firm's lethal elegance.
The suit he wore was crafted from Super 210s wool blended with vicuña, a fabric so rare and fine it felt less like cloth and more like a second skin. In the morning light, it didn't just reflect brightness; it seemed to absorb it, a deep, matte midnight blue that verged on obsidian.
This man didn't just wear the suit; he inhabited it with a terrifying precision. Every line was sharp enough to draw blood.
His hair did not have a single strand out of place, dark and sleek against the pale morning sky. He had a jawline carved from granite and eyes that seemed to calculate the value of everything they touched.
He didn't see me at first. He reached back into the car for his briefcase, his movements fluid and practiced. He was already in "Chambers mode" the tailored suit was buttoned, his expression a mask of calm and sophistication enveloped his face.
I had reached the elevator, grateful to have missed that unwanted encounter, or so I thought. He walked into the space, just at the brink of missing the door.