It was Friday afternoon when Rozen found herself standing in Mr. Grey's sleek, silent office again, the city beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows bathed in the soft glow of early spring sunshine. A stack of files lay on his desk, waiting, but Mr. Grey—crisp in his charcoal suit—was staring out at the skyline, jaw tense, eyes unfocused.
"Miss Eirwen," he said without turning. His voice was quiet but charged—an undertone Rozenn had only ever heard once before, the afternoon they'd visited Mr. Leary in prison. "Gather your things. We're leaving in five."
Five minutes later, Rozenn's tote was zipped tight, her notebook secured, and she was standing beside him in the elevator, Tammy telling Rozenn in a quick text that she'd rendezvoused with her own superior on matters of corporate settlements. They'd laughed about the near-curse of simultaneous court appearances, but today, Rozenn was alone.
The elevator descended, a soft hum, but Rozenn's own heartbeat drummed. She and Mr. Grey stepped into the lobby.
Rozenn swallowed. She'd walked this path with him a handful of times—defamation, domestic violence, civil disputes—but today, something felt different. Mr. Grey's back was rigid, shoulders squared as though bracing against not only the rigid architecture of the building but an inner storm. She followed him past the revolving doors, through the street, to the waiting black sedan.
The drive to the state penitentiary was unusually silent. Ted, Mr. Grey's long-time driver, navigated downtown traffic with calm expertise. Rozenn sat beside him in the backseat. It was a really quiet drive, save for the occasional click of Mr. Grey's pen as he reviewed a file, his jaw set, the crease between his brows deepening every time his eyes flicked up from the pages.
Why did this feel different? she wondered. He hasn't looked like this before.
Eight years ago, Mr. Grey, fresh-faced and hungry for justice, had thrown himself into that unwinnable fight. Evidence was thin, witness statements shaky—but he believed wholeheartedly in his client's innocence. Then, in a inexplicable turn, a key witness recanted, prosecution produced damning new evidence, and the jury convicted. Mr. Grey was furious then—suspecting some powerful force had meddled, had shifted strings in the courtroom like a puppeteer. But appellate efforts fizzled until he vowed silently: "One day, I will free him."
Over the years, Mr. Grey had visited that man once every few months, delivering updates on new leads: an overlooked CCTV tape, a half-burned note from a bystander, whispers from an insider. Rozenn had joined two prior visits; each time, Mr. Grey was professional, measured. But today—she sensed urgency.
They arrived at the prison's rusted gates. Guards in olive uniforms stood at attention, clipboards in hand. Mr. Grey presented his credentials; the commanding officer—sergeant's stripes—led them past metal detectors and razor-wire fences to a small, windowless conference room. The waiting area held two harshly lit chairs facing a thick plexiglass window.
Inside, behind the glass, sat a gaunt man in an orange jumpsuit. His hair was salt-and-pepper, eyes lined with fatigue and hope. The moment the door slid open, his face transformed—shock, relief, tears. He rose on unsteady legs.
"Mr. Grey," the inmate rasped. His voice was hoarse but fervent. "You came."
Mr. Grey offered his hand, then enveloped the man in a brief, professional embrace. "I promised," he said softly.
Rozenn watched, heart twisting. This was no ordinary client meeting—it was a reunion of two men bound by justice and a shared sense of betrayal.
After formal greetings, they sat. The plexiglass wall and two phones separated them, but the emotional barrier felt permeable.
"How are you holding up, Mr. Carter?" Mr. Grey asked, using his client's name—the name on the original indictment.
Carter swallowed. "Some days are harder than others. I've nearly forgotten what fresh air feels like."
Mr. Grey nodded. "I… understand." He paused, searching for the right words. "I've uncovered new evidence since our last visit. Enough to file a motion."
The tension in Carter's shoulders eased, tears brimming. "You… you're serious?"
Mr. Grey's lips tightened into a resolute line. "Yes. Satellite data placing the key witness in another city at the time of the murder. Forensic reanalysis of the murder weapon matching only his own fingerprints. And testimony from a jailhouse snitch—"
Carter closed his eyes, grief and joy mingling. "I thought I'd die here."
Mr. Grey's gaze flicked to Rozenn, then back to Carter. "You will be free. Soon."
For the next hour, they reviewed evidence, discussed strategy, and prepared for the upcoming hearing. Rozenn, seated nearby, took meticulous notes—dates, times, witness names, the exact coordinates of phone records. She watched Mr. Grey's calm competence, but what struck her most was his vulnerability as he looked at Carter: a wounded soul he'd failed once and was determined never to fail again. Guilt, pity, righteous anger—they all danced across his face.
When the session ended, Carter clutched the papers to his chest. "Thank you. I… I can't find words."
Mr. Grey offered him a steady smile. "Let us do the talking tomorrow. Rest tonight."
As the guards escorted Carter away, Rozenn caught Mr. Grey's eye in the glass. He exhaled—an audible, human sound. His shoulders sagged for a moment.
She lingered a beat. "Sir… I'm honored to have been here with you."
He nodded, voice quiet: "Thank you, Miss Eirwen."
*****************************
Back at the firm by 6:30 PM, the mellow glow of sunset streamed through the windows. Spreadsheets and briefs gave way to the promise of two days off. As per tradition—and because Mr. Collins and Mr. Grey left last—no one dared move until the seniors departed.
Mr. Collins stormed out first, briefcase in hand, grumbling:
"Try not to drown in paperwork on Monday!"
He paused at the door, glared back, then mumbled, "And someone fix that coffee machine!"
Laughter rippled through the office.
Moments later, Mr. Grey appeared at his door. He gathered his coat, then paused again, expression gentle. "Miss Eirwen."
Rozenn rose, heart thudding.
He spoke low. "Enjoy your weekend. Take care."
"Y-Yes, sir. You too."
"Goodnight Mr. Grey." Larry called out.
"Yeah, you all have a nice weekend."
The automatic doors slid close behind him. Rozenn exhaled, cheeks warm.
*****************************
The group gathered in the lobby at 7:00 PM, Tammy, Soren, Kim, Alan, Lisa, Edna—and Larry, who insisted on driving his oversized SUV despite its terrible gas mileage.
Hop in," Larry said, tossing Alan the keys. "I'm DJ tonight."
Alan surged into the driver's seat. "Seat belts, folks."
In the back, Rozenn and Tammy squeezed together, belts clicked. Kim, Soren, and Lisa filled the other seats. Laughter erupted as Larry queued up "Uptown Funk."
"Hit it!" he cheered. Alan navigated the ramp.
The SUV thundered into the city streets, music blasting, windows down. Voices rose in off-key harmony.
"This hit, that ice cold… Michelle Pfeiffer, That white."
Tammy belted the chorus, fists pumping. Rozenn joined, face alight. The world outside blurred into neon streaks. For these few minutes, they were free—lawyers, assistants, colleagues, and friends—united by laughter.
*****************************
Magnum Club stood on a lively corner, its entrance framed by pulsating lights and velvet ropes. A bouncer with arms like tree trunks and a bow tie the size of a small pillow scanned their IDs.
"Friday night?" he asked, amusement twinkling in his eyes.
"Friday night," Tammy confirmed, tossing him her card.
Inside, the club throbbed with energy. Strobe lights carved the air, booming bass reverberated through the floor, and the scent of citrus cocktails mixed with laughter. Three-tiered VIP booths lined the walls; the center dance floor was a riot of bodies moving in unison.
The group claimed a high table near the dance floor. Larry ordered a round of signature "Magnum Martinis," pink and frothy, served in slender-chilled glasses.
"Bottoms up!" Alan toasted, clinking glasses.
They sipped carefully—until Lisa's eyes went wide. "Oh, wow. That's… potent."
Laughter erupted again. Soon they slid onto the dance floor, limbs loose. Tammy led them in synchronized moves, her years of salsa lessons shining through. Rozenn flailed gracefully, the stress of the week melting away. Soren attempted a dramatic backbend and nearly clipped Lisa, causing riotous laughter.
Between songs, they refueled at the bar. Alex from IP appeared—"small world," he chuckled—offering Rozenn a drink. She accepted, feeling a flushed warmth beyond the alcohol.
At one point, Rozenn found herself breathless, cheeks tinged pink, as she exchanged jokes with Alex. Tammy jogged over, playful slap on Rozenn's arm.
"Dancing with your coffee guy?" Tammy teased, eyebrow arched.
Rozenn grinned, "Flirting. Flirt-flirt."
"Nice." Tammy winked and returned to the crew, dragging Kim onto the floor.
They danced again—this time to a throwback 2000s track. On the chorus, Rozenn felt the room spin and, in that moment of dizzy joy, knew that nothing in that sterile office could ever match this vibrant camaraderie.
*******************
6 hours passed like minutes. Champagne flowed, laughter pealed, and inhibitions evaporated. Rozenn felt the gentle tug of intoxication, her words and movements growing bolder. She excused herself and Tammy to the restroom, its fluorescent lights harsh against their flushed faces.
In the mirror, Rozenn ran a hand through her hair. "I feel—happy."
Tammy twisted around, hair swinging. "You look gorgeous."
Rozenn giggled, swaying. "I—" She paused, took out her phone, and dialed a number she seldom called after hours. The line crackled.
"Grey." His voice was flat, cautious.
"Evan!" Rozenn slurred, stepping closer to the mirror. "It's me. Rozenn."
There was a pause. "Miss Eirwen? Are you—"
She cut him off belting out an emotional confession: how she admired him, how she understood his pain, how she wanted to hug his sorrows away. She told him to smile more, stop scaring everyone. In between hiccups, she gushed about his sharp jawline and perfect hair, and—drunken genius of the moment—she volunteered to stuff him in her bag so no one else could see him or hurt him.
"Are you drunk, Ms. Eirwen? And where are you?" Mr. Grey's cool voice crackled through the speaker.
"Drunk? Noooo. Just… fashionably… hammered." She giggled. "We're at Magnum Club. We're—"
"Stay where you are." He said and the line went dead.
She dropped the phone, breathless. Tammy stared. "You… you called him."
Rozenn squinted. "He said… stay put."
Moments later, pounding bass mingled with the flurry of heels on dance floor. Rozenn and Tammy popped out of the restroom into the crowded main room—and froze.
Through the throng advanced Mr. Grey—dressed in pale brown slacks and a maroon polo shirt, completing the relaxed look with a pair of black Birkenstock sandals—flanked by Marco, his best friend and owner of the restaurant Bellamy & Co. Both men parted the crowd with purpose. Marco, tall and easygoing, wore jeans and a leather jacket, grin wide.
"Ladies," Marco called as they approached, voice raised over the music. "Time to go home."
Cheers erupted from Rozenn's colleagues at the nearby VIP booth. "Rescue squad!" Larry howled.
Rozenn's face turned fifty shades of red. Marco hoisted his hand, and two club servers emerged. Marco barked addresses at them. One by one, Larry, Kim, Soren, Lisa, Alan, and Alex stumbled into waiting cabs.
Mr. Grey knelt beside Rozenn, gentle despite his cold professionalism. "Rozenn," he said softly. "We're leaving."
Tammy grabbed Rozenn's arm and practically dragged her along. "Come on, Harriet Tubman."
As the last cab departed, Marco laid a consoling hand on Rozenn's shoulder. "Don't worry. They're safe."
They slid into Mr. Grey's car. Rozenn sank into the leather seat, Tammy beside her, both still processing. Marco joined them in the back as Ted took the wheel. The SUV eased away from Magnum Club, music trailing behind them.
******************
By 1:30 AM, the SUV pulled into a gated entry. The house beyond was a vision of classical elegance: white columns, winding rose bushes, lantern-lit pathways. Mr. Grey led them inside, Marco trailing with grocery bags (for snacks). The housekeeper, Estelle, greeted them warmly, measuring the pitiful sight of two weary assistants with professional sympathy.
"Come, come, dears," she cooed. "I'll get you cleaned up."
Estelle whisked them away to a powder-blue bathroom filled with plush towels and designer toiletries. Rozenn clutched her stomach against the queasiness of cheap drinks, but Estelle's kindness soothed her. Tammy moaned into a towel, blinking at her reflection—oversized mascara smears, a boa draped over her shoulders.
In minutes, fresh pajamas lay in waiting. They showered, changed, and emerged blinking into crystal-lit hallways.
Estelle showed them to a guest suite—sumptuous beds, high-thread-count sheets, a view over the estate's rolling grounds.
"Good night, Miss Eirwen, Miss Adair," Marco said with mock formality. "Sleep tight."
Mr. Grey gave a small nod. "Rest. Tomorrow, you'll have a story to tell."
They gave profuse thanks—Apologies tumbled over themselves. Estelle smiled kindly, Marco winked, and Mr. Grey returned to his study, the door clicking softly behind him.
*******************
Sunlight filtered through heavy drapes. Rozenn's eyes fluttered open. She lay on a mattress she didn't recognize, sheets unfamiliar. Panic shot through her. She bolted upright. Tammy—still asleep—stirred.
"Tammy?" Rozenn hissed. "Wake up!"
Tammy's eyes snapped open. "What—?"
"We're not at home. We're in a stranger's house."
They scrambled out of bed, nearly tripping over plush carpeting. The hallway stretched before them—a gallery of framed art, a long runner carpet, doors leading off to rooms they'd never seen. They exchanged terrified glances.
Footsteps approached. At the end of the corridor, Mr. Grey and Marco appeared, both wearing casual clothes—grey sweater for him, jeans and polo for Marco. Marco's grin was amused but gentle.
"Good morning," Mr. Grey said quietly. "I hope you slept well."
Rozenn's voice wobbled. "We… we're so sorry. We didn't mean—"
Mr. Grey raised a hand. "It's okay. You were safe. Estelle ensured you were comfortable."
Marco added, "You two caused quite a scene last night."
Tammy turned fifty shades of red. "I'm so sorry."
"You needn't apologize," Mr. Grey said. "Your colleagues are safe too. I had them in cabs ten minutes after I arrived—addresses courtesy of Ted who has dropped them off a couple of times." He paused. "Please, have breakfast. Estelle has prepared eggs, fresh fruit, and toast."
Rozenn sank against the wall, relief flooding through. "Thank you."
Mr. Grey inclined his head, then met Rozenn's gaze. "You two should change back into your clothes." He rubbed his neck again. "I apologize for the oddness."
Tammy managed a weak laugh. "We—thank you."
They followed Marco and Mr. Grey down another hallway to a sunlit breakfast nook. Estelle bustled about, setting china plates with avocado toast, yogurt parfaits, and freshly brewed coffee.
Rozenn and Tammy sat in matching high-backed chairs, the table set like a Sunday brunch. They ate in near silence, glancing at each other, realizing the magnitude of last night's escapade.
After coffee, Ted arrived to drive them home. Mr. Grey and Marco walked them to the grand entrance.
"Thank you," Rozenn said, voice thick. "For everything."
Mr. Grey's gaze was soft. "Take care."
Marco winked. "Don't be strangers."
They climbed into Ted's car, the engine purring. As they pulled away, Rozenn and Tammy sat in stunned silence, eyes locked on the receding mansion.
**********************
Back at their apartment, Rozenn and Tammy stumbled through the door, collapsing onto the couch. The morning sun felt harsh through the windows.
"Oh God.." Rozenn muttered eyes flying open from realization, her cheeks turning red.
"What?"
"I remember some of it," Rozenn began, hands flying to her head, grabbing a handful of her hair. "I—called him. I said… 'I want to hug your pain away.'"
Tammy shrieked. "You—what?!"
Rozenn slumped, hair mussed. "I'm so—so fucked."
They clung to each other, adrenaline still coursing. But beneath the panic lay a deep warmth: in that moment of embarrassment and intoxication, they had been cared for, protected by a man who wore power and compassion in equal measure.
"I—don't regret it," Rozenn whispered.
Tammy sniffed. "Me neither. But… wow."
They sat together in the growing light, laughter trembling on the edge of tears. The weekend stretched before them—files to review, emails to send—but something profound had shifted. Boundaries had blurred, trust had been tested, and an unspoken bond had deepened: the bond between Rozenn and Mr. Grey, between friends and colleagues, between the hunt for justice by day and the wild abandon of Friday night.
In that laughter and shame, Rozenn realized the heart's capacity for humility and grace. She was no longer just Mr. Grey's assistant—she was part of a story eight years in the making, a story that began with injustice in a bleak prison and now pulsed with human connection.