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~Christmas Eve 2003~
The Wolfram & Hart Christmas Reception at the Fairmont Hotel in San Francisco...
About 9:15 p.m.

Lilah Morgan nibbled disinterestedly at a celery sliver from the crudite platter a waiter offered her as she observed her bubbly young trainee/orienteering protegee graciously refusing yet another invitation to dance.  Sheila Fabray was raw-boned and round-bodied, her dark walnut hair kinked with a terrible spiral perm; yet the male guests, clients and employees of Wolfram & Hart, swarmed around her like bees drawn to an especially desirable flower.

How does she do it? Lilah wondered.  The high-powered executive attorney and junior partner for the sinister law firm had done wonders at her career climbing but she was no popularity queen despite her well-maintained good looks.  She inspired a lot of resentment in her male colleagues for her professional successes.  They even speculated that she won her promotions by fellating the Senior Partners.   Lilah always laughed when she thought of that.  If the gentlemen had ever met the Senior Partners they’d know it was anatomically impossible for any human female to do such a thing. *Is that all it takes to impress ivy-league graduates?  Frizzled hair and a southern accent make a woman irresistible?*

“No, thank you, Mr. Riordan.”  Sheila beamed up at the middle-aged paunchy man, a CEO for one of Wolfram & Hart’s biggest, most powerful affiliates.  “I need to sit a few out!” 

*Christ!* Lilah thought. *She’s been raised on sugar cane and it comes out in her voice!*

James Riordan, a man definitely unaccustomed to being refused anything, smiled indulgently at the sweet-voiced thing and caressed her hand, before nodding cordially at Lilah and moving along to another woman, the buffet table, the bar, or another business partner to talk shop with.

“Honey I’m *so sorry* we were *interrupted*!”  Sheila turned back to her mentor.  “Where *were* we?”

“Angel Investigations.”  Lilah decided the young associate’s appeal lay in her sincerity.  She treated everybody like she genuinely cared about how they felt.  No one had called Lilah “honey” since her mother’s Alzheimer’s had progressed to the point that she no longer remembered having a daughter.  “I saw you rooting that file and I don’t want you involved with that.”

Sheila’s lower lip flared into a pout and her soft gray doe eyes widened.  “But Lilah, I thought they were one of your most difficult projects!”

“They are,” the cool willowy brunette admitted it cautiously.  “But I’m a little ambitious about them.”  She sipped champagne in an elegant cut-crystal fluted goblet.  The extremely rare, obscenely expensive vintage tasted acidic and bitter to her.  “I want to complete that case on my own.”

Sheila’s pout blossomed into a sympathetic smile. 

“Is it because of Wesley?” she asked softly.

Lilah lowered her curled eyelashes and set her flute down on the table.  It was inevitable that Sheila would have heard the office gossip about her love affair with Wesley Wyndham-Pryce.  Lilah herself didn’t like to talk about it.  She regarded Wesley as one of her biggest adult mistakes.  Not because he hadn’t proved useful, however unwittingly, in her attempts to manipulate and undermine Angel Investigations.  Not because she hadn’t enjoyed the hottest, most uninhibited sex she’d ever had.  Not even because she’d fallen in love with the sensual Englishman.  Lilah would never regret that, love was too precious and rare in her world.

It was a mistake and a disappointment because Wesley loved Angel Investigations more than her.  Not just that pathetically backward brainiac physicist, Fred Burkle, a woman too stupid to give him a second thought.  Wesley loved them all.  Angel, the vampire who’d tried to murder him in his hospital bed.  Connor, the vampire’s dysfunctional son.  Cordelia Chase, his mutated demonic-human secretary, and Charles Gunn, the big muscle in the group.  Wesley loved them, even though they’d turned their backs on him and cast him out when Angel blamed him for Connor’s kidnaping and sibsequent loss into the Quorrthoth hell dimension.

It was inevitable that the group welcomed him back into the fold.  They’d misjudged him and, more importantly, they'd misjudged how much they  needed him.  Still, Lilah was surprised that he chose to return.  She’d respected him more when he’d curtly refused her offers of employment at Wolfram & Hart even when he was down and out.  He’d gone independent instead, using his brains and occult know-how to become a formidable supernatural mercenary, and had done quite well for himself. 

Besides, while Wesley remained in private practice, he was still a neutral participant in the conflicts between Angel and Wolfram & Hart.  Lilah could still see him and not be considered fraternizing with the enemy.  But Wesley had gone back.  His calls became less frequent and she had not returned them when they did come, until they finally stopped. 

Lilah was alone again, still loving him and missing his arms around her, his husky whisper of her name in the dark.

“Not really,” Lilah replied, shrugging her shoulders and arranging her face into a bland smile.  “Wesley made a choice, duty over love.  So did I.”  Although, in all fairness, Lilah’s choice was motivated by the fact that Wolfram & Hart took its employees’ personal lives very seriously.  If the Senior Partners did not approve of one’s personal life, very ugly things might happen.

“It’s all so tragic and romantic,” Sheila sighed dramatically.

“Angel did the same thing once.”  Lilah idly fingered the beveled edges of her goblet’s stem where twinges of candlelight reflected an ethereal glow.  “Left the love of his life, for her own good or so I’m told.  Came to L.A. to forget her, fight the good fight and become a major hemorrhoid for Wolfram & Hart.”  Lilah’s head lurched just slightly and she realised she was a little drunk. Odd, this was only her second glass of champagne.  She shouldn't be drunk.

Sheila giggled pertly at her mentor's remark and Lilah carefully smoothed her wispy bangs to one side of her face.  Porcupine quills prickled in her throat–they always did when she thought about Wes, and what might have been–and her eyes burned a little. *I miss Wesley too much,* she thought vaguely.

“Oh Lilah!”  Sheila exclaimed, softly sympathetic.  Her sweet voice almost made the executive attorney burst into tears and Lilah didn’t want to do that.  She worked too hard to maintain her hard-as-nails, cold-blooded bitch image.

“*I wish that bastard never gave up on her.  I wish he loved her so much it ate him up inside.  I wish *nothing* ever mattered to him–except her.*” Lilah whispered vehemently, coughing vainly to force the lump out of her throat.

The smarmy Lawrence Welk-esque orchestra struck up a spirited Glen Miller medley and James Riordan chasséd back towards their table.  He smiled kindly at Sheila but the hand held out to her was imperious.

“I won’t take no for an answer, young lady!”

Sheila glanced at Lilah concernedly and Lilah waved her on with a brittle smile.  Business was business and Riordan was an important man. Lilah wanted to go upstairs to her room, anyway.  She had to avoid an unsuitable display of public grief.  The Senior Partners probably would not approve.  Their very nature was predatory, they preyed upon the weak, and grief was a weakness.

Sheila smiled gleamingly, slowly rising from her seat in the corner where she’d been hiding from her little fan club with Lilah.  “You’ve got it, honey!” she said cheerily.

Lilah raised her eyebrows as she rose from the damask-cushioned chair.  Riordan, a man with shark-like business tactics, grinned widely and guided Sheila ahead of him onto the intimate dance floor.

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