Under His Skin

The storm had come swiftly and without warning. London, caught in the midst of the first autumn deluge, lay drenched and cold under a canopy of steel-grey clouds. Wind howled through the streets, carrying with it the bitter sting of rain. In the early morning hush, only the sound of hurried footsteps and the rhythmic patter of raindrops filled the air. Pedestrians shuffled along, eager to escape the weather’s wrath as water splashed up from the streets, forming tiny ripples in scattered puddles.

One such puddle was abruptly disturbed by the step of a polished black shoe, connected to a man in a tailored suit, flanked by two others dressed in a similar fashion. Jean-Baptiste De la Roche, known as William to his colleagues, was on his phone, his voice clipped and precise despite the backdrop of the storm.

“It’s not going to take that long, Alice,” he said, his tone betraying a hint of impatience. “I told Cillian myself that I’d be there. Don’t do this to me.” His dark hair, disheveled by the wind, only added to the sternness of his expression as he listened to Alice’s response, irritation flaring momentarily in his eyes.

"Why would you schedule that?" William interrupted, his jaw tightening. "I don't need a psychology test. I don’t care if it’s common practice, Alice." He walked briskly, his companions following in silence, not daring to interrupt their leader's conversation. "Then tell them to do it another day," he added before ending the call, his features hardening into a mask of focus as they approached the entrance of the office building.

The trio stepped into the lobby of the Sterling Harrington Bank, shaking off the chill of the morning storm. The vast space greeted them with a stark contrast to the weather outside—warmth, bright lights, and the quiet hum of activity. A young receptionist rose from behind a sleek desk, her appearance immaculate, her smile bright and welcoming.

“Good morning, gentlemen. How can I help you?” she asked.

“Good morning,” said one of William’s companions, Archibald Radcliffe, a hint of practiced charm in his voice. “We’re from De la Roche & Kingsley LLP.”

“Of course,” the receptionist replied, her tone cordial. “Welcome to the Sterling Harrington Bank. I’m Alisha, and I’ll be showing you to Mr. Harrington’s office. Please, follow me.”

Alisha led the way to the elevator, her every step composed, her heels clicking lightly against the polished floor. William’s gaze flickered briefly towards her, taking in the carefully maintained appearance and practiced smile. Her enthusiasm for her role was apparent, even if it bordered on overzealousness. She proceeded to explain the building layout as they rode up, her voice breaking the silence with details about various floors and amenities. Yet, William’s attention wandered in and out, his thoughts drifting towards the meeting ahead.

“Which floor is the one with the psychologist, Mrs. Hawthorne?” William interrupted, almost as an afterthought.

The receptionist’s brows furrowed for a moment before recognition lit her features. “Dr. Hawthorne, you mean,” she corrected, her tone firm yet polite. “She’s on floor thirty-six.”

William nodded, barely acknowledging her clarification as the elevator reached its destination. They emerged into a bustling open-plan office, where yet another young and striking woman, Olivia, awaited them. She introduced herself as Mr. Harrington’s provisional secretary and led the men down a corridor lined with glass-walled offices. The tap of her heels on the floor echoed softly in the space as she knocked on a large wooden door.

“Come in,” a voice called from within.

Olivia pushed the door open, and the men stepped inside. Mr. Harrington rose from his seat, his face breaking into a broad smile as he approached William, his hand extended in greeting.

“Mr. De la Roche, how are you?” he said, his voice booming with the practiced warmth of a man accustomed to taking charge. “Just like your father, aren’t you?”

For a fraction of a second, a flicker of something crossed WIlliam’s face—perhaps annoyance, or a trace of unease—but it vanished just as quickly. “Of course,” he replied, his voice steady and polite, offering no hint of what lay beneath the calm exterior.

After a brief exchange of introductions, the men settled into leather chairs arranged around a small cluster of couches. Mr. Harrington, his expression shifting to a more serious tone, leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“I’m going to be honest here and cut away from all the bullshit,” he began. “We’re in a fucked-up position. I’m sure you’ve all done your research and know what I’m talking about, but in case there’s any doubt—this case is not easy.”

The room fell silent as William and his colleagues, Archie and Harry Wharton, nodded in unison. They had prepared for this, each of them steeled for the gravity of the situation.

“Can you win it?” Harrington asked, his voice laced with a mixture of doubt and challenge. He let out a dry chuckle before delivering his punchline with the practiced flair of a man who relished his own theatrics. “I don’t give a fuck because you guys fucking have to.”

Harry, the youngest of the trio, visibly stiffened at the bluntness, while William remained impassive, his gaze fixed on the older man with unwavering calm. He had worked with Harrington before and knew well the kind of environment that came with it.

Harrington continued, outlining the grim details of the case, the stakes, and his expectations. As he paced the room, a map of the building was laid out on the table, displaying the relevant departments where they would be working—the psychology floor and the legal offices. With a wave of his hand, he dismissed Harry and Olivia to familiarize themselves with the legal team while keeping William and Archie back for a more private discussion.

As the door clicked shut behind them, Harrington’s demeanor changed. His gaze sharpened, and he dropped his voice, making it clear that now they would speak plainly. “How fucked are we?” he asked, a grim smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Massively,” William answered without hesitation, meeting Harrington’s eyes with a calm yet piercing intensity.

“But,” William continued, “it’s not an impossible case.”

Harrington raised an eyebrow. “How so?”

Archie leaned forward, taking his cue from William. “They don’t want to take this to court,” he explained. “They might say they do, but it’s just an intimidation tactic. They want to settle, and that’s to our advantage. The negotiations will be smoother if we play our cards right.”

Harrington crossed his arms, nodding slowly. “I’m not willing to pay more than a million dollars,” he said flatly.

“You won’t pay more than that,” William replied, his voice firm and confident.

Archie glanced at William, surprise flickering across his face. It was a bold statement, and William knew it. But his confidence didn’t waver; he was already calculating the angles, the weaknesses to exploit. This was what he did best—crafting a strategy out of chaos.

As Harrington leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with a mix of respect and challenge, William could feel the weight of expectation settling over him. It was the first day of what would undoubtedly be a grueling few months, and there was no room for failure.

And somewhere, a lingering thought tugged at the edges of William’s mind—a psychologist he needed to speak to. Dr. Hawthorne, on the thirty-sixth floor. Her name carried a certain gravity, a kind of curiosity that he hadn’t been able to shake since it was first mentioned.

But for now, his focus was on the case. There would be time for distractions later, if at all. For William Jean-Baptiste De la Roche, winning was the only thing that mattered.