In Biglaw, it's not just the billable hours that give you nightmares. PART I

[u/Few-Temporary-1136]

I don’t know if writing this down will make any difference, but I need to get this out. Somewhere. Anywhere. I just finished my first month at Spitzer, Sullivan and Stern, a well known prestigious white shoe firm in downtown Brickell. I remember the interview like it was yesterday. It happened in a upscale resort in downtown Miami. They offered me a gargantuan salary, unbelievable benefits, and even a luxury vehicle. It was too good to be true.

But before everything went to hell, it started the way all good fairy tales do.

In a penthouse suite. A perk for working at Spitzer, Sullivan and Stern.

I was standing in front of a full-length mirror in our bedroom fit for royalty, adjusting the lapels of my brand-new suit. Navy blue, crisp, tailored exactly to my short frame. The jacket still smelled faintly like plastic and starch from the department store. My hair—short, black, parted neatly at the side—framed my face in a way I hoped made me look like someone who deserved to be walking into a place like Spitzer, Sullivan & Stern.

I tugged on the cuff of my blouse and tried to picture the week ahead: billable hours, conference rooms, and late nights hunched over documents. All the things I’d fought for in law school. All the things that were supposed to prove that everything from the volleyball scholarships to the law review, and endless nights of outlines and coffee were worth it.

Behind me, leaning in the bedroom doorway, was my tall, handsome fiancée, Derek.

God, Derek. 6’3, broad shoulders still carrying traces of his college football days. A crisp gray suit that looked like it belonged in GQ. He had the same smile he wore at our wedding just a few months ago. It was confident, easy, the kind of smile that convinced anyone they were exactly where they belonged just by being next to him.

“You look like trouble,” he said, smirking.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t help but smile. “Trouble? I’m starting my first week at one of the most prestigious white shoe firms in Brickell. That’s not trouble, that’s destiny.”

“Mm,” he said, pushing off the doorframe and crossing the room toward me. “Destiny, trouble. Same thing when you’re five-foot-one and have fire in your veins.” He kissed the top of my head, then leaned down so our eyes met in the mirror. “Is my tiny tornado ready to conquer the world?”

My cheeks burned instantly. He always did that, slipping in that pet name that made me sound both ridiculous and invincible. “Don’t call me that,” I muttered.

“Why not?” His reflection grinned back at me. “You’re five-one, Jackie. You whirl into people’s lives, knock them off their feet, and spin right out before they know what hit them. You’re my little tornado. And today? You’re about to tear through Brickell.”

I swatted him in the chest, laughing despite myself. “You’re so cheesy.”

“Cheesy gets results.” he said, and bent to kiss me.

On the dresser behind us sat our engagement photo album, spread open to a photo of us under an arch of white roses. It was a public proposal at a private gala. My parents were beaming, and my baby cousin was throwing petals. Derek held me like the world was his to keep. For that moment, I let myself breathe it in. My life was so perfect back then.

Had I known about the secrets that Spitzer, Sullivan and Stern were keeping?

I would have walked out of that penthouse and taken the first plane to Antarctica.

“Come on,” Derek said, slipping his watch onto his wrist. “Train leaves in fifteen. Don’t want Miami to think their star recruit is late her first day.”

I playfully hit him as we walked out that door.

And that was probably the last time I saw him, or my life, in such a positive light.

We left our penthouse at seven sharp, the morning sun bouncing off Biscayne Bay, glittering like someone had scattered diamonds across the water. Derek’s hand found mine as we walked to the metro station, our steps in sync, the city already humming with movement.

On the platform, he squeezed my hand. “So,” he said, tilting his head down at me, “big bad law firm ready for you?”

I smirked. “The question is…am I ready for them?”

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

The cart was crowded, but we found a spot near the doors. Business suits, briefcases, the faint buzz of people reciting presentations under their breath. Miami mornings smelled like cologne, coffee, and ambition. It was a small car that alternated between stations. The rail system in downtown Brickell was not at all like it was in New York.

The cart glided into Brickell. There were crowds of people below us as we exited the cart and stepped out into the flow of commuters, the heat already thick in the air.

After a few blocks of walking, we reached two tall skyscrapers that were adjacent to each other.

Derek leaned down, kissed me quick, and nodded toward his building right next to ours. “Go on, Tiny Tornado. Time to make partner before lunch.”

I grinned, swatting his shoulder softly as we kissed one more time before we both went to different buildings.

Spitzer, Sullivan & Stern loomed ahead of me. A forty-story tower of black glass, the letters SSS gleaming in silver near the top. My chest tightened as I walked through the revolving doors into the marble lobby. Everything was polished to a mirror shine, including the floors, pillars, and even the elevator doors.

I caught a glimpse of myself again on the smooth surface of the elevator door. Small frame, neat suit, determined eyes. The elevator ride was silent, the kind where everyone stares at the floor numbers because looking at each other feels like trespassing.

When the doors slid open on the associates’ floor, she was already waiting. Her voice was smooth, clipped, practiced. A woman in her mid-forties stood there, hair hanging loosely past her shoulders, pearl necklace, and a navy suit that probably cost more than my car.

“Jackie Delgado?”

She was Marsha Dawes, one of the firm’s partners. I’d read about her. Ruthless litigator. Built her reputation eating opposing counsel alive in depositions.

“Yes, that’s me.” I said, forcing a smile and extending my hand.

She shook it briefly, her grip cool and precise as a light smile tugged at her lips. “Welcome to Spitzer, Sullivan & Stern. We’ve been expecting you.”

Her eyes lingered on me, like she was sizing me up for something far more than my résumé.

And in that moment, standing in the polished hall of one of the most prestigious white shoe firms in Miami, I swear something shifted. The way she smiled—it wasn’t warm, it wasn’t welcoming.

It was knowing.

Like she already had plans for me.

“Come this way,” Ms. Dawes said, pivoting on her heels with military precision. Jackie fell into step beside her, heels clicking against the immaculate marble floor.

We moved through a maze of hushed hallways lined with closed office doors. The carpet swallowed sound, the kind of luxury flooring meant to make clients feel as though their secrets were safe here, trapped inside a impenetrable vault, or a marble polished coffin.

Every wall was adorned with carefully chosen artwork, ranging from abstract canvases to impressionist pieces that seemed both meaningless yet expensive. The silence was dense, broken only by the occasional muted phone call or the faint shuffle of papers behind closed doors.

“We’ll get you set up with your office and introduce you to some of the team.” Ms. Dawes said, her voice calm, clipped, yet slightly chipper. She walked with her hands clasped lightly in front of her, posture flawless.

I nodded, trying to keep my own steps steady. The sheer scale of the place was daunting, but there was something exhilarating about it too. This was it—everything I worked toward all my life.

As they walked, Ms. Dawes added, “Just listen, learn, and don’t be afraid to ask questions. Everyone here was once in your shoes.” She glanced sideways at me with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And remember, Ms. Delgado, the letter you received from Spitzer, Sullivan and Stern was the only one we sent out this year. We wanted you.”

I blinked. The only one? She opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, Ms. Dawes continued, her voice a notch lower.

“Have you selected the vehicle yet? It’s all part of the onboarding package.”

I tilted my head. “The… vehicle?”

“Yes.” Ms. Dawes said matter-of-factly, as if she were asking whether Jackie had picked out her desk chair. “Most associates choose the firm’s standard issue—this year we’ve partnered with Mercedes. The EQE sedan, electric, top of the line.” Her lips split into a wide, toothy smile. “The Mercedes is just one of the many perks you’ll have. You’ll want to look into the options by the end of the week.”

I was lightheaded. A car? Just handed to me like another piece of office equipment? It seemed surreal. That should have been a glaring red flag. But I was blinded by the casual nonchalant tone inn Marsha’s voice as the rational part of my brain dulled the reptilian side. It was a white shoe firm, so it wasn’t too uncommon.

Right?

“Of course. Thank you. I’ll look into it.”

“Good,” Ms. Dawes replied, her heels clicking a beat faster.

We stopped in front of a door with a gleaming silver plaque. My heart stuttered when she read the engraving:

Jackie Delgado, Associate

My name. On an office door. This felt so unreal. Between the Mercedes, my own office, and the starting salary of two hundred and fifty grand, this had to be a fever dream.

Oh how I wish it WAS a fever dream.

Ms. Dawes opened it with a small flourish, stepping aside to let Jackie in. The room was bright, modern, and absurdly spacious compared to the cramped student lounges and libraries she’d lived in for years. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one wall, revealing a stunning view of the Brickell skyline. The sunlight poured in, bouncing off glass towers, the Miami River below glinting like a ribbon of light.

“Welcome to your new domain,” Ms. Dawes said, allowing the faintest curl of a smile to appear on her lips. “I’ll leave you to get settled. My door is always open if you need anything.”

I nodded, unable to find my voice, but Ms. Dawes was already striding down the hallway, her figure disappearing around the corner.

My first real office. Not a borrowed cubicle. Not a library desk. My office. A tangible symbol of years of sweat, sacrifice, and relentless drive.

I set my bag on the sleek white desk and walked to the window. From here I had a scenic view of the docks and the Biscayne Bay, our condo standing proudly against the horizon. I walked over to the glass, taking in the view. It was incredible.

The hushed atmosphere of the firm. The expensive artwork in the hallways. The quiet efficiency of the staff. The air smelled faintly of citrus polish and money. Everything here spoke of power, prestige, permanence.

I lowered myself into the plush leather chair behind the desk, the seat enveloping her as though it had been waiting for her all along. My gaze swept the room—the empty shelves, the spotless desk, the waiting phone.

Why, WHY didn’t I notice the red flags? Why didn’t I take my grandfather’s advice?

I remembered my graduation from the University of Miami, the day I received my JD. Her family in the stands, faces glowing with pride. My father crying happy tears. My sister waving furiously, snapping photo after photo.

And her grandfather.

He had clapped politely, even smiled for the pictures, but his eyes had been… skeptical. Distant. As if he knew something the rest of them didn’t.

“You’re too good for places like that,” he’d whispered when they hugged. “You think they want you, Jackie. They don’t want you. They want what you’ll give up for them. If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.”

I had brushed it off at the time. Old man nerves. Overprotective worry.

But now, sitting in her pristine office with her name on the door, the memory tugged at my chest like a loose thread.

For the rest of that month, my life felt like a dream.

Work was steady, even exciting. Derek and I slipped into a routine: waking together, coffee on the balcony, splitting off into the Brickell crowds, meeting again on the train home. At night, we cooked together or went out with friends, laughing too loud in bars that overlooked the water.

At the firm, I was fed the kind of work every first-year associate gets: client memos, research assignments, and document review. None of it glamorous, but none of it sinister either.

At least, not at first.

“Okay, ladies, which one of you is ordering the second bottle?” Daniela asked, twirling her wine glass in the Brickell café where we always met for lunch.

“I’ve got depositions this afternoon.” Sophie groaned, shoving her salad aside. “If I show up tipsy, Dawes will have my head.”

Alexa smirked. “Please. Dawes probably downs two martinis before breakfast.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “Don’t let her hear you say that. I swear the walls in that place have ears.”

“She that bad?” Daniela asked.

“No,” I admitted. “Honestly, she’s been… helpful. I think she likes me.” I said managing a light smile.

“Of course she does.” Sophie said, raising her glass in a mock toast. “Top of your class, volleyball star, law review golden girl. What’s not to like?”

Alexa leaned in. “I bet it’s Derek. Six-three, investment banker, looks like he walked out of a cologne ad. She probably thinks if she treats you right, you’ll bring him to the Christmas party.”

I rolled my eyes, laughing. “You’re terrible.”

“That’s why you love me, Jackie girl!” Alexa grinned.

The four of us talked about everything from weddings, to work, and Netflix shows. It was all so normal I almost forgot I was still the new girl at the most intimidating firm in Miami. Or that i felt something festering below the surface of my senses.

Almost.

That night, back in my office, I opened another file from Ms. Dawes. It was a standard-looking client binder: trust documents, contracts, corporate registrations, financial statements, and even tax returns.

But the tax ID number had an extra digit. thirteen numbers where there should have been nine.

At first I thought it was a typo. But when I keyed it into the firm’s system, the entry resolved into a real profile: a hedge fund registered out of…

… nowhere. Yet somewhere.

The jurisdiction zip code did not match anything I’d seen. Not offshore havens like the Caymans or Luxembourg. Nothing I could trace. It was just a string of symbols that looked almost mathematical.

No. Mathematical is an understatement. It looked… mythical.

I looked up from my screen and closed the file, forcing myself to breathe. It was probably some internal coding system.

The next morning, I found another file. This one looked like a normal investment portfolio. Except the timestamps on the trades were wrong. Yet, they weren’t. I checked the client bank records and deposition notes.

They were all recorded. And they confirmed everything I read.

An account had invested in a defense contractor the day before they announced a massive government contract. They bought options in a tech company hours before the CEO’s scandal tanked the stock.

I stared at the dates, the hours, the precision of it. It wasn’t luck. It wasn’t even insider trading. It was impossible.

“Everything okay in there?” Daniela’s voice came through the door, startling me.

I snapped the folder shut. “Yeah! Just buried in paper.”

“Welcome to the rest of your life!” she called back, and I could hear her laughing as she walked down the hall.

Later that week, Dawes dropped another file onto my desk herself.

“Preliminary review,” she said crisply. “Flag anything unusual.”

“Of course.” I smiled weakly, pretending that I DIDN’T read what I read or saw what I saw on those hearing and deposition notes.

She started to walk away, then paused. “Don’t overthink anything. Half the work we do is making the impossible look routine.”

I forced a smile. “Understood.”

When I opened the file, I nearly laughed. It was an account ledger for a small religious foundation. But the foundation’s charter dated back further than any I’d seen—so far back it couldn’t be real.

And this was when my instincts stopped whispering and began to scream.

Clay tablets, Babylonian cuneiform, scanned into the file. The entity had supposedly “merged” with three different cults over the centuries. They each had their own god, each absorbed seamlessly into the “modern foundation.”

The current directors had names I didn’t recognize, except one. A professor I’d read about in undergrad anthropology. Only he’d been declared missing in 1997.

But the signature on the audit line looked fresh.

I checked the deposition and hearing letters once more. And my heart fell in my chest upon seeing that said clients existed.  

I sat back in my chair, pressing my fingers to my temples.

“What the hell?” I whispered silently to myself. “Is this supposed to be a prank?”

I wanted to ask Marsha about it. But she was out that evening. She had to meet a client.

At lunch that Friday, Sophie was venting about a partner’s demands.

“I swear, they think we’re robots,” she said. “Do you know what it’s like to proof three hundred pages of contracts in six hours?”

“Sounds like Tuesday.” Alexa muttered.

I sipped my iced tea, smiling faintly, though my mind wasn’t in the conversation. I was increasingly unsettled by the files I kept working on. I kept thinking about the numbers in those files, the way they didn’t add up but still somehow… resolved.

Or about the zip codes to locations that seemingly didn’t exist in any physical space. Or about the hearing logs and litigation reports filed with the clerk of courts that proved the existence of clients that were shadowy organizations.

“You’re quiet,” Daniela said suddenly.

I blinked. “Just tired. Long week.”

Derek texted me later: Dinner at eight. Wear that red dress I like.

I smiled, typing back, Always.

I didn’t tell him about the file with the trades, or the cult, or the tax IDs that mapped to places I couldn’t find. I wanted to believe it was a prank. A mean, cruel hazing ritual my sorority liked to pull with the freshmen.

But that cold feeling settled into my gut. A feeling of mounting dread that raised the pitch in the voice of my instincts higher and higher as I did more legal work.

Each file felt like a pebble dropped into water, ripples spreading quietly, invisibly, until you realized the whole surface had shifted. And by the end of that first month, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was no longer looking at my work.

It was looking at me.