AMARA'S POV
The email lands in my inbox at 9:47 AM, and my stomach drops before I even open it.
SUBJECT: See me. Now.
Richard Hartwell. Managing partner. The man who promised me partnership three years ago. The man who's been avoiding my calls for two weeks.
My hands freeze over the keyboard. Around me, the office buzzes with normal Wednesday morning chaos phones ringing, assistants rushing past with coffee, lawyers arguing about case strategies. But everything feels wrong. The air tastes like metal.
I save the asylum case I'm reviewing and stand. My legs feel like water. The walk from my office to Richard's corner suite takes thirty seconds, but it feels like drowning in slow motion.
Every lawyer I pass looks away.
Jennifer, who sits two doors down, actually turns her back when she sees me coming.
Mark from litigation ducks into the break room.
Sarah from family law suddenly finds her shoelaces fascinating.
They know something. They all know something.
My heart hammers against my ribs. I smooth down my blazer, touch my mother's gold necklace for luck, and knock on Richard's heavy oak door.
Come in. His voice sounds like gravel.
I push open the door. Richard sits behind his massive desk, looking at his computer screen instead of me. That's the first bad sign. Richard always looks people in the eye. He's a handsome man in his fifties, silver hair perfectly styled, expensive suit that costs more than my monthly rent. He taught me everything about immigration law. Told me I had a gift for it. Called me his protégé.
Now he won't even look at me.
Sit down, Amara.
I sink into the leather chair. The same chair where he once promised me a future.
There's no easy way to say this. Richard finally meets my eyes. His face looks tired. Guilty. The firm is restructuring.
The words hit me like ice water.
Restructuring. Corporate speak for layoffs. For cutting loose the people who don't matter enough.
I don't understand. My voice comes out smaller than I want. My case numbers are excellent. I brought in the Mendoza family account. The Garcia asylum case made headlines. I've never missed a deadline
It's not about performance.
Then what is it about?
Richard shifts in his chair. The board met yesterday. We're... streamlining the immigration department.
Streamlining. I taste bile. Richard, I built the immigration department. From nothing. Three years ago, you didn't even have immigration cases.
I know. He looks at his hands. And you've done incredible work.
But?
But the board feels that given the current political climate, immigration law is becoming too... controversial. We need to focus on our corporate clients. The ones who pay steady retainer fees.
The floor tilts under me. This isn't about my work. It's about money. About politics. About the fact that I fight for people nobody else wants to fight for.
What about my green card application? The question rips out of me. You said the firm would sponsor me. You promised.
Richard's face goes gray. The board decided we can't move forward with that.
The room spins.
Can't.
Won't.
Same thing.
How long? I barely whisper it.
Your H-1B visa expires in thirty days.
Thirty days.
One month.
Then I'm illegal. Then I'm deported. Back to Nigeria. To a country I left when I was thirteen. Where my parents are buried in graves I've never visited because I was too terrified to go back.
And my cases? My voice sounds hollow. Dead.
We're transferring them to Jennifer.
Jennifer. Who failed the bar exam twice. Who wouldn't know an asylum claim from a shopping list. Who will let those families fall through the cracks because she doesn't care enough to fight.
You're throwing away people's lives. I stand up. My chair scrapes against the floor. The Mendoza kids are in removal proceedings. Mrs. Garcia's hearing is in six weeks. These people need me.
Jennifer will handle it.
Jennifer will destroy it.
That's enough, Amara. Richard's voice hardens. He's done pretending to care. This decision is final. You'll have until the end of the month to transition your files. HR will discuss your final pay check and benefits.
He's dismissing me. After three years of killing myself for this firm. After winning cases nobody thought we could win. After building something from nothing.
I turn to leave, my vision blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
Amara. Richard's voice stops me at the door. For what it's worth... I'm sorry.
Sorry doesn't keep me in the country. Sorry doesn't save my career. Sorry doesn't mean anything at all.
I walk out of his office with my head high. The hallway is empty now everyone's disappeared into their offices, hiding from my shame. I make it to the bathroom before the tears come.
I lock myself in a stall and let myself break. Sob until my throat burns. Until there's nothing left but empty rage and terror.
Thirty days.
Everything I built. Everything I fought for. Gone.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out with shaking hands, expecting Sophie. Expecting sympathy.
Instead, I see a text from Marcus. My boyfriend of three years.
We need to talk. Tonight. Don't make plans.
My blood turns to ice.
Don't make plans.
Those three words tell me everything.
Marcus is going to dump me. Today. The same day I lost my job. The same day my entire future exploded.
I stare at the message, and something cold and hard settles in my chest.
How much worse can one day get?
I'm about to find out.