Cursed - N. Isabelle Blanco Page 0,2

less.

Within seconds, his need to brag takes over, and he’s proudly announcing that what we’re toasting with is no other than Louis Roederer Cristal Gold Medallion. Twenty-five K a bottle. Purchased in honor of me because my achievement deserves “nothing but the best”.

I toast.

I smile.

Graciously offer my thanks.

It’s all about playing the part. So what if this fucker probably got this stuff not only because he shares a first name with the man who named the company, but also to show off his ability to throw someone’s yearly salary on a single bottle? It’s not like we’re actually drinking it. It’s toast-and-dump here. Hold the expensive stuff up like an offering to the gods and then move on to the real liquor.

Cognac.

Bourbon.

Drinks that make them feel like “real men”.

Every bottle equally as expensive as the wine we so callously disposed.

Clearly.

“Another one, LeBlanc!” One of the new lawyers to the firm gushes, face split in a smile, as if we’re already friends.

I know he hopes we’ll be.

I’m one of the top attorneys in this crowd, second only to the family that owns the firm itself. Everyone wants to cozy up to me.

The newbie’s enthusiasm is mimicked throughout the room, a perfect parody of ass-kissing.

Westfeldt LLP—that’s right, one name, no partners in the title—has scored another huge, unpredictable win.

Unpredictable to the outside world. I, for one, knew I’d win the moment I was brought onto the case.

I always win.

Funny, it wasn’t always like that, but that was an era long past. Ten years past. Not worth thinking about.

Yet, as the entire penthouse of young and old attorneys, as well as their assigned booty calls for the night, flow to me like the joyful bubbles in the discarded champagne, nothing but congratulatory smiles and awe on their faces, I’m oddly fixated on that time in my life.

Those memories I’d rather forget.

The shell of a person I once was, worthless to the point of deserving death.

I push away the memories and focus on the stunned glee on the partners’ faces.

The rank envy of those beneath me; those that wonder how the fuck I do it. How I keep winning case after case, no matter how obviously guilty the client is.

Even with the entire media painting a picture of corruption and culpability.

It’s sheer talent, my friends. My unnatural knack for picking apart facts and repainting the events into any picture I choose.

Nothing at all to do with that woman. That hallucination. The deal you keep dreaming about lately.

There was no deal, and there’s no room for paranoia in tonight’s festivities. Laissez les bons temps rouler, as we say in New Orleans. Let the good times roll.

I’ve done what I do best—the money being deposited into my account takes me one step further from who I once was.

Adds another layer of security to my life.

Assurance that I’ll never go back to being the good-for-nothing I was originally born to be.

Someone claps me on the back. Again. I take it and dish out another gracious smile. Thank them for their praises. Pretend to be one of them—New Orleans’ crème de la crème—and the entire time the whispers grow louder.

Outside the wall of windows, the Big Easy glows like the unique jewel it is.

Not the part I was born into. Hell no. That part is like a festering rot upon this city.

This is the view the world sees. The infamous Canal Street. The best of Vieux Carre—the French Quarter.

This suite in the Ritz-Carlton? Only a select few ever see its grandeur outside of pictures.

“They went all-out for this one, huh?” Travis, one of the only people I can actually stand at the firm, murmurs with a smile on his face.

I simply tip my head in acknowledgement and continue to work the room.

Louis and his father, Herbert Westfeldt, acquired it for the night in order to host this celebration. In “my” honor, you see.

As if they don’t view me as nothing more than an asset to advance their own names.

Not that I care. My own name is well known in the upper ranks of this city. My bank account? Perfect. Right where I need it to be.

I’ll never go back to being that penniless, unworthy nobody again.

Making a deal with the devil has its perks.

I didn’t make a deal with the devil!

“What was that, Silas?” Joanna, a fellow lawyer, asks. Her green eyes are wide, blinking rapidly, brain failing to compute the stupidity I clearly blurted aloud.

My forehead prickles with sweat.

I’m saved from responding by another wave of ass