𝐑𝐀𝐘𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 is your average do-good lawyer on the rise to fame as a representative of young victims. Except her motivations aren't all that innocent. Rayne's only goal is to run from her past, to leave confrontation for the courtroom, no...
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RAYNE'S FACE PULLED INTO AN AUTOMATIC frown as the sun streaking in from the balcony finally made its sweeping way across her face. A puff of air passed her discontented, parted lips as she moved the hand strategically tucked under her pillow over the mattress. Worry lines threatened to make an appearance in old age as her unappeased expression deepened upon feeling the cold sheets.
Groaning and peeking her eyes open, she fully embraced the fact that Christian had left her to fend for herself this morning and left for work early. In an efforted move, she sat up and slipped her legs off the bed, rubbing the hardness of her palms into her sockets.
Tiredness became her as she dropped her hands and glanced at the glaring red numbers blinking next to her in alarm—it was five thirty-two, which, in other words, meant that she had to get up.
She hopped down and swung her fingers across the fabric of her robe, hitching it to her shoulders in one fluid motion, and padded toward the balcony door.
The wind danced charades through her hair while the sunrise brightened it with a morning glow. Below, the city was awake, waiting for her. As her eyes scaled the descent, an abnormal feeling of change twinged in the back of her mind—something about it left her unable to decipher if it was good or bad.
The nostalgic feeling captured her and forced an extra fifteen minutes of aimless motion she couldn't afford to waste. An hour later, squeezing herself between two strangers at the front of the elevator, she cursed her tardiness.
Keeping in mind that her first client of the day was supposed to arrive within the hours of her scheduled organization, she felt frazzled. The unnecessary time spent at home, plus L.A. traffic had her standing on the twentieth floor absolutely breathless and thirty minutes late.
Well—not actually, but she wanted to get here before seven and utterly failed.
"G'mornin', Ms. Miller," a fellow employee waved to her.
"Good morning!" she chirped back.
Her cheery attitude lasted all of two seconds before the face of an older woman took the place of the nice gentleman; her lip curling at the sight of her.
In turn, Rayne's mouth mimicked hers, slipping downwards as her eyes followed suit. She spent too long daydreaming, so it wouldn't be a surprise if her haphazardly thrown-on outfit stemmed out of place. Immodesty felt like internalized misogyny, but law had no room for anything but professionalism.
But after inspecting it herself, there wasn't a fabric out of place. She shot a glare over her shoulder at the woman's back and continued her trek to the break room. A few tsks followed the click of her heels, and for once, she found herself biting back her retorts. Jealousy was a disease she wasn't willing to catch, so she merely rolled her eyes and forced her face-first, focusing her attention on not tripping over the ragged carpet beneath her feet.
