A Lawyer's Vengeance

My name is Cara Hamilton, the youngest partner at HJ Law Firm. At four in the afternoon, just as the court's judgment in our favor arrived on my phone, Evan George called. "Cara, we've won!" "Thanks to you this time. Now that we've won the YS Capital case, no one in the circle will dare say I advanced by luck." His voice was brimming with barely contained excitement, accompanied by the faint clinking of champagne glasses in the background. I held the phone and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the bustling crowd below, softly replying with a gentle "hmm." Over the past three years, this marks the third pivotal commercial case I have helped Evan George win. From the time he first entered the profession, facing constant rejection while carrying a business plan, to now securing his position as a rising talent in the investment banking sector, I have devoted nearly all my spare time to his cases. Colleagues at the Law Firm often half-jokingly say that I am not simply assisting my husband with litigation, but cultivating the largest potential client for HJ Law Firm. I smiled without responding. Only I understand that what motivates me is not commercial gain, but the promise Evan George made to me ten years ago — "Once I have established myself, I will make sure you live the best life possible." Tomorrow is our tenth wedding anniversary. Evan George said he wanted to surprise me, asking me to leave work early to prepare at home. I specifically asked my assistant to reserve a hard-to-get table at a restaurant downtown, and I took out the champagne-colored dress he gave me three years ago. As I stepped out of the law firm's main entrance, the setting sun bathed the sky in a warm orange hue. Walking toward the parking lot in high heels, I saw from a distance a girl standing next to my car wearing the same style dress. The dress's design is not common; I personally ordered it last year at Fashion Week, and it is limited to only five pieces worldwide. The girl looked to be in her early twenties, her skin fair, her eyes holding a clarity untouched by the world, yet subtly edged with an almost imperceptible defiance. "Are you Cara Hamilton?" She spoke first, her voice soft and gentle, at odds with the look in her eyes. I stopped, examining the skirt she wore—almost identical to mine—as a faint chill crept over my fingertips. "I am. And you are?" "My name is Willa Xavier." She stepped forward and took her phone from her canvas bag, the screen showing a photo of her with Evan George. In the photo, Evan George is wearing the dark gray suit I gave him, bowing his head to help Willa Xavier tidy her hair. The tenderness in his eyes is something I have never seen before. The background is the floor-to-ceiling window of our bedroom; the champagne-colored silk curtains were handpicked by me. "We've been together for two years." Willa's voice was soft but, like an ice pick, it stabbed sharply into my heart. "He said once he firmly establishes himself, he will divorce you." I stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if all the blood in my body had frozen. The sunset's light fell upon Willa Xavier's gown, refracting a dazzling brilliance—identical to the look in Evan George's eyes when he said, "I will love you forever"—both deceitful and intensely fervent. That night, when Evan George returned, he bore the scent of alcohol and a carefully arranged bouquet of roses. He saw me sitting on the sofa, pale-faced, clutching a photo left by Willa Xavier; the smile on his face immediately stiffened. "Cara, please listen to my explanation..." He discarded the roses in his hand and hurriedly reached out to take my hand. I abruptly withdrew, the chill at my fingertips transferring to his hand. He paused in surprise, then crouched before me, his tone urgent and flustered: "Willa was the one who pursued me. I intended to end it, but she is too young and reckless, constantly threatening me with suicide." I studied the redness in his eyes, suddenly recalling his frequent late returns over the past six months and the growing number of encrypted files on his phone. "That skirt—did you give it to her?" I cut him off, my voice so calm it felt almost foreign to myself.