The Rise of the Apex Lawyer 👔

Chapter One — First Day Jitters  

The lobby smelled like money. Not the kind you stuff in your wallet, but the kind you wire overseas in six zeroes and never see again. Glass walls, marble floors polished enough to blind me, and the Roth & Gray LLP logo hanging above the receptionist’s desk like a crown jewel.  

And me? First day. Fresh intern. Already sweating through my only decent tie.  

I tugged at my collar like that would magically fix the nerves buzzing under my skin. Everyone here walked like they were late for something worth billions. Phones glued to ears. Briefcases snapping open and shut. Perfect haircuts. Perfect posture. Perfectly out of my league.  

A guy in a navy suit breezed past me, barking orders into his Bluetooth. He didn’t even glance my way. To him, I wasn’t here. Not a person. Just lobby furniture.  

Cool. Loved that for me.  

“First day?”  

I turned. Another intern stood behind me, sharp suit, sharper smile. He had that easy confidence of someone who’d been prepped for this world since birth. The kind of guy who probably had his own LinkedIn fan club.  

“Yeah,” I said, trying to sound chill.  

He smirked. “Good luck. You’ll need it.” Then he strode to the elevators like he owned the building.  

My stomach dropped. He wasn’t wrong.  

I shuffled toward the reception desk, clutching my internship packet like a lifeline. The receptionist gave me a quick once-over — not rude, just assessing. Like she was scanning barcodes.  

“Name?” she asked.  

“Eli Mercer,” I said. My voice cracked. Perfect. Real smooth.  

She tapped something on her screen, then handed me a visitor badge. “Twenty-second floor. HR will get you settled.”  

I nodded, muttered thanks, and followed a stream of actual lawyers into the elevator. Everyone in there looked too polished to breathe the same air as me. I caught my reflection in the mirror wall — messy hair refusing to stay down, tie slightly crooked. I adjusted it three times before giving up.  

The doors dinged open. Twenty-second floor. My battlefield.  

The HR rep, a woman with sharp glasses and sharper efficiency, ran me through the basics — ID card, desk assignment, a map of the firm that looked more like a labyrinth than an office. Then she dropped the bomb.  

“You’ll be shadowing junior partner Amelia Price,” she said. “She’s… intense. But if you keep up, you’ll learn a lot.”  

Intense? Cool. Couldn’t wait.  

By the time I found Amelia’s office, my palms were damp, my shirt collar sticking to my neck. She didn’t look up when I knocked. Just kept typing, words flying across her screen like bullets.  

“Close the door,” she said. Voice clipped, no wasted syllables.  

I did.  

“You’re the new intern.” Still no eye contact.  

“Yes, ma’am—”  

“Don’t call me ma’am. Price is fine.” She finally glanced up, eyes sharp enough to cut glass. “You’re here to make my life easier. You fetch files, you run research, you don’t screw up. Got it?”  

“Yes, Price,” I said quickly.  

She studied me for a second longer, then returned to her keyboard. “Good. There’s coffee on the counter. Grab yourself one. You’ll need it.”  

I grabbed a cup, sat down in the corner, and tried not to breathe too loudly.  

And just like that, Day One had officially started.  

The climb to the top of the mountain? It began right there, in the shadow of Amelia Price’s office.  

Chapter Two — Coffee & Copy Machines  

The coffee was bitter. Not “oh this is strong” bitter, but “who let battery acid into the pot” bitter. I sipped anyway because Price wasn’t lying — I needed it.  

Her office was already a warzone of papers, binders, and red-ink Post-its. She typed like she was trying to punish the keyboard for existing.  

“You know how to use Lexis?” she asked without looking up.  

“Yes,” I lied.  

Her eyebrow twitched. She knew. “Good. Pull everything you can on the Marlowe contract dispute. Statutes, precedent, client memos, the works. Bring me something useful before lunch.”  

And just like that, my trial by fire began.  

I found myself in the intern bullpen — a corner of cubicles shoved between the copy room and the vending machine. Translation: the firm’s basement of broken dreams.  

Two other interns were already there. The guy from the lobby — navy suit, LinkedIn smile — sat at his desk scrolling his phone like he had all the time in the world. Across from him was a girl in a burgundy blazer, typing with scary speed.  

She looked up first. “New guy?”  

“Yeah. Eli.”  

“Naomi,” she said, then nodded at Mr. LinkedIn. “That’s Trevor. Don’t let the smile fool you. He’ll trip you in the hallway if it gets him closer to a full-time offer.”  

Trevor grinned like he’d been complimented. “Competition makes us sharper. Right, Eli?”  

I forced a smile. “Sure. Sharper.”  

Naomi rolled her eyes and went back to typing.  

I set up my workstation, cracked open the firm’s legal research software (thankfully not too different from law school databases), and started digging.  

The Marlowe case was a corporate contract nightmare — hundreds of pages, loopholes on loopholes. My brain was already fried by page three. I scribbled notes, highlighted precedents, and muttered curses under my breath.  

By hour two, my eyes burned. By hour three, the copy machine jammed on me. Of course.  

“Newbie mistake,” Trevor said, leaning against the doorframe. “You gotta feed it slow or it eats the paper.”  

“Thanks for the tip,” I muttered, yanking out the mangled sheet.  

He smirked. “Don’t worry. Price chews interns up faster than that machine. You’ll be gone by next week.”  

“Appreciate the pep talk,” I said flatly.  

Naomi appeared behind him, arms crossed. “Ignore him. He thinks if he psychs us out, he wins. Just do your job and don’t let Price see you sweat.”  

Too late. My shirt was already sticking to me.  

By the time I marched back into Price’s office with my notes, I felt like I’d run a marathon.  

She flipped through the printouts, skimming like a machine. No reaction. No “good job.” No “this is trash.” Just a cold, unreadable poker face.  

Finally, she said: “Not useless. Surprising.”  

Coming from Amelia Price? That was basically a standing ovation.  

“Thanks,” I said, trying not to grin too hard.  

She dropped the papers on her desk. “Don’t thank me yet. You’ve got a long way to go before you’re worth the coffee you’re drinking. Now go. Court filing at four. You’re coming with me.”  

My pulse spiked. Court? Already?  

I nodded, grabbed my bag, and followed her out.  

Day Two of being an invisible intern could wait. Today, I was about to see the shark tank up close.  

Chapter 3 — The Courtroom Baptism  

The elevator dinged, and my stomach dropped like it had been waiting for this moment all day. Floor twenty-two? Child’s play. Lobby? Easy. But walking into the courtroom with Price? Whole new arena.  

She didn’t bother with small talk. “Follow me,” she said, heels clicking on the polished floors like a warning bell.  

We passed rows of empty seats, polished wood panels, and a judge already perched behind a towering bench. The room smelled of old paper, polished wood, and anxiety — the kind that makes your palms sweat even before you touch a single file.  

“Stay close. Watch everything. Learn something,” Price muttered without looking at me.  

I nodded, trying not to look like a deer caught in headlights.  

The case? A commercial dispute between two mid-size tech companies over software licensing. Pretty standard for the firm, but this was my first real courtroom exposure. Price handed me a folder. “Read the opposition’s last filing. Summarize the weak points. Five minutes.”  

Five minutes? My pulse spiked. I flipped through the pages, trying to pick out gaps in dense legalese while the judge banged the gavel for attention.  

Opposing counsel, a slick guy in a perfectly tailored gray suit, smirked when he saw me. “You brought the intern?”  

Price didn’t flinch. “He’s observing. Quietly.”  

I shrank into my corner. Heart thumping. Every eye in the room probably registered me as insignificant.  

Then it happened. The opposition started presenting their argument, citing statutes and precedent. My eyes darted over my notes. One clause jumped out — a loophole they’d overlooked. My stomach lurched. I whispered it to Price.  

Her eyes narrowed. She didn’t look surprised, but that tiny twitch of her eyebrow felt like a secret handshake.  

“Good catch,” she murmured, barely audible. Then she made a subtle reference to the clause in her rebuttal.  

Boom. Argument shifted. The courtroom leaned in, sensing the turn, though no one except Price and I knew why.  

After what felt like hours but was really thirty minutes, the judge banged the gavel. “We’ll recess. Counsel, excellent points.”  

Price grabbed her bag. “Come on. Debrief.”  

We walked down the steps together. My knees were wobbly. My brain was buzzing. I had survived my first real legal fire — and I wasn’t completely invisible.  

“You’ve got potential,” Price said finally, her usual blunt tone softened. “Keep your eyes open. Pay attention. Learn the patterns. Court isn’t about the law—it’s about reading people and making them dance to your rhythm.”  

I nodded, absorbing every word like a sponge.  

Outside the courtroom, Trevor was leaning against the hallway wall, smirking. “Survived your first fire, newbie?”  

I shot him a grin, not fully confident but daring. “Barely. But I learned something.”  

Naomi appeared beside me. “Not bad for your first day,” she said. “Welcome to the shark tank.”  

And just like that, the walls of the firm — the lobby, the bullpen, Price’s office, the courtroom — all felt a little less impossible. But the real test? That was still ahead.  

Chapter 4 — Rival Moves  

The next morning, the bullpen smelled like burnt coffee and ambition. I slid into my desk, half-hoping Trevor would be nowhere in sight. Spoiler: he was there, leaning back in his chair like he owned the place, scrolling through his tablet with that smug smirk that made me want to throw it across the room.  

“Morning, newbie,” he said without looking up. “Survived your first day?”  

I tried to sound casual. “Yeah. Learned a lot.”  

He chuckled. “That’s cute. Watch and learn. Day Two’s where the weak get chewed up.”  

I swallowed hard. The guy didn’t just want to compete—he wanted to intimidate. Every word was a challenge, every smirk a test.  

Naomi appeared beside me, her laptop tucked under one arm. “Ignore him,” she said quietly, scanning the room like she was defusing a bomb. “He thinks if he psychs you out, he wins. Just do your work, don’t give him ammo.”  

“Thanks,” I muttered, grateful. Her calm confidence was like a shield.  

Trevor wasn’t subtle about his tactics. First, it was small things—dropping off files I had to reorganize because “they were out of order,” or tossing side comments like, “You sure you read that clause right?” in a tone that suggested I’d fail spectacularly if I tried.  

Next, he escalated. During a briefing with Price, he leaned over my shoulder, whispering corrections I hadn’t made. I felt my ears burn as I corrected my notes mid-sentence, feeling every eye in the room slide toward me.  

Price’s eyes flicked to Trevor once, a brief narrowing. Then she turned back to me. Not a scolding, not yet. Just a glance that said: handle it.  

I nodded slightly, swallowing the lump in my throat.  

Naomi noticed, sliding a hand over the edge of her laptop. “Pro tip,” she whispered, leaning close. “He’s trying to rattle you. Don’t give him the satisfaction. Focus. Facts. Notes. Precision. That’s what Price notices, not theatrics.”  

I memorized her words like a mantra. Precision. Focus. Facts.  

By mid-morning, Trevor’s little games became predictable. I started noticing patterns: the way he always tried to distract, the timing of his remarks, the slight smug pause before he spoke. Each observation was like a puzzle piece falling into place.  

During lunch, I sat in the small intern corner of the cafeteria. Naomi joined me, carrying a salad and a determined expression.  

“Eli, listen. If you want to survive here, you need to play smart. Not aggressive, smart.  

Learn the personalities. Watch their habits. And never, ever let Trevor see you sweat.”  

“Got it,” I said. I could feel my chest tightening with a mix of nerves and determination.  

“Also,” she added, smirking, “don’t be afraid to call him out when it matters. Subtle, but firm. He hates it when you have your own spine.”  

I nodded. Spine. Not just surviving — standing. That felt bigger than research notes or courtrooms. That felt like a tiny spark of ambition.  

Back at the bullpen, Trevor swaggered in, tossing a stack of folders onto my desk. “Thought you might need some extra practice,” he said, the smirk fixed in place.  

I looked at him, then at Naomi, then at the folders. My stomach lurched — but I also felt that spark.  

“Thanks,” I said, voice steady. I organized the folders with methodical precision, noticing every small detail, checking for inconsistencies, highlighting potential weak points. Trevor hovered, watching, smirk slowly fading as realization dawned on him: I wasn’t the same rookie from yesterday.  

Naomi shot me a subtle thumbs-up. I returned the gesture, trying not to grin.  

By the time Price returned to check our progress, I had a small stack of neat, annotated files. She glanced at them, nodded once, and turned to Trevor. “Good work, Eli,” she said, her eyes lingering just long enough to make me feel… capable.  

Trevor’s jaw tightened, the smirk gone.  

I leaned back in my chair for a moment, letting the adrenaline fade. Day Two was already testing me, but for the first time, I felt like I wasn’t just surviving — I was starting to play.  

Outside the bullpen, Naomi leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “See? He’s not unbeatable. Just don’t lose your head, and you’ll be fine.”  

I smiled. “Thanks, Naomi. I think I’m getting the hang of it.”  

She shook her head with a quiet laugh. “Don’t get cocky. That’s when the sharks smell blood.”  

And somewhere in the back of my mind, I realized: that was exactly what I wanted — to swim with the sharks, and not just survive, but rise.  

Chapter 5 — Shadowing the Partner  

Price’s office smelled faintly of espresso and polished leather — a sharp contrast to the bullpen’s recycled coffee scent. She didn’t waste time with greetings. “Eli, grab a notebook. Today, you watch. Learn. Don’t interrupt unless I ask.”  

I nodded, heart racing. This was different. No courtrooms, no interns. Just her, clients, and strategy — the engine room of the firm.  

Our first stop was a client meeting with a tech startup embroiled in a licensing dispute. Price didn’t lead with legal jargon; she started with questions, soft but precise, probing for motivations and hidden leverage.  

I scribbled notes like a madman. Every pause, every inflection, every subtle nod mattered. Price leaned back, listening, letting the client reveal more than they intended. She smiled occasionally, but never too much — that tiny smile seemed to put people off balance in the best way.  

After the meeting, she turned to me. “Notice anything?”  

I glanced down at my scribbles. “She… she lets them talk first. Gauges reactions. Picks up tiny tells.”  

Price’s lips twitched, almost a smile. “Exactly. Negotiation isn’t just about law. It’s about reading people, timing, and influence. The clauses are just the chess pieces.”  

Next was document prep for a major case. I watched as Price dissected contracts, highlighting risks, noting ambiguous language, and suggesting strategic adjustments. She moved fast, precise, yet deliberate — every mark of her pen was intentional.  

“You see,” she said, pointing to a clause, “this section is weak. Not illegal, but exploitable. That’s where leverage comes from. Law is static. People are dynamic. Learn the difference.”  

I nodded, absorbing each word. It was like learning a secret language — one that governed power, negotiation, and outcomes.  

During lunch, Price didn’t relax. She reviewed notes, typed emails, and fielded calls. I sat quietly, occasionally glancing at my own notes, realizing how much work went into decisions that looked effortless to outsiders.  

Afternoon brought a second client, a corporate executive frazzled over a minor licensing hiccup. Price remained calm, asking targeted questions, summarizing points clearly, and guiding the conversation toward compromise without seeming to give ground.  

I leaned back slightly, impressed. It was more than law — it was psychology, persuasion, and timing all rolled into one.  

After the meeting, as we walked back to her office, I couldn’t help but comment: “How do you stay so calm under all that pressure?”  

Price’s eyes flicked to me. “Control what you can. Observe what you can’t. And never show your panic. Fear is contagious. Confidence… that can be contagious too.”  

Her words sank deep. I realized this internship wasn’t just about learning law. It was about understanding power — how it moved, how it could be influenced, and eventually, how it could be wielded.  

Later, she assigned me a mini task: reviewing a set of negotiation notes and identifying points of leverage. My fingers shook slightly, but I focused, scanning the documents with precision. When I handed them back, Price’s glance lingered — brief, but approving.  

Trevor appeared in the bullpen later, smirk faltering as he caught wind of my little assignment. He leaned back in his chair, trying to look casual. “Shadowing Price, huh? Hope you can keep up.”  

I smirked subtly. “I’m learning fast.”  

Naomi caught my eye and gave a subtle nod. “See? You’re starting to find your rhythm.”  

By the end of the day, exhaustion weighed on me, but it was a different kind — a charged, purposeful fatigue. I had glimpsed the mechanics behind the firm’s power and influence.  

As I walked past the marble lobby, I realized something important: surviving the shark tank wasn’t enough. To rise, I had to play the game — read people, anticipate moves, and act decisively.  

And for the first time, I felt ready to start learning how.  

“when and if you are done reading, you could drop your personal takes, reviews, or ratings in the Book Ratings/Reviews page in the navigation bar. Tell me if you want more.”

— Samuel, 18.