It had been two weeks since Rozenn Eirwen's heart had done somersaults at the soft click of a pen, since she'd carried Mr. Grey's handwriting in her pocket like a talisman, and since the firm's 19th-floor bullpen had hummed with new, electric anticipation. Now, as she stepped off the elevator on that Friday morning, the air felt charged with something more than the usual caffeine and legal deadlines: the aroma of possibilities. The lobby doors buzzed open, and she walked through into a sea of black suits and navy blazers, only to freeze in her tracks before the giant announcement board that had been installed overnight. It towered over the reception desk like a billboard in Times Square, all polished brass and glossy renderings of sunlit palm trees and coral-hued sunsets. At the top, in elegant serif font, it read:
Grey's Law Firm 15th Anniversary Retreat
Three Days of Team Building, Workshops & Grand Gala Dinner
At the Grand Harrington Resort
June 4–6, 2025
Her breath caught. The Grand Harrington Resort: a brand-new, ultra-luxurious coastal haven owned by Mr. Grey's grandfather, rumoured to have just opened its private marina and infinity pool overlooking the sea. Everyone had been whispering rumors for weeks—rumors of floating breakfast trays, personalized yoga sessions at dawn, and spa huts carved from driftwood—but now it was official. Rozenn's pulse echoed in her ears as she read on: workshop schedules, keynote speakers (including the Minister of Justice), team-building exercises (from competitive beach volleyball to trust falls from driftwood platforms), and the pièce de résistance, a formal gala dinner under swaying palms, where everyone would don tuxedos and ball gowns and dine by moonlight.
A soft nudge brought her back to the present. Kim, beaming like it was Christmas morning, peered over her shoulder. "Well?" she whispered, eyes alight. "You impressed?"
Rozenn tore her gaze from the announcement and managed a laugh. "Impressed is an understatement. Did you see the view?" She pointed to the board's image of the resort's cliffside terrace, glass railings and all.
Lisa pushed past, nearly knocking Rozenn into the sign. "My brother's cousin went to the pilot event last month—he said the infinity pool has underwater speakers that play ocean sounds."
Larry joined, waving a printed pamphlet. "I already circled every workshop with a marker. I'm doing the negotiation challenge, the mindfulness-by-the-sea session, and definitely the beachfront mock trial. Imagine closing arguments on the sand."
Alan appeared with his phone open to a photo of last year's gala: twinkling lights strung between palm trees, servers in crisp white jackets offering champagne flutes. "Don't forget the proposal story," he murmured. "Last year, Soren's cousin got down on one knee during dessert. It was like a scene from Love Actually."
Onda ambled up, arms crossed, trying to look nonchalant but failing. "I'll be the one hiding in the dunes to avoid the early-morning yoga. Can we have a retreat without pretzel pretzels and downward-dog sweat?"
Soren, camera slung around his neck, arrived breathless. "Guys, guys, I have the perfect shot in mind: the Minister's arrival, headline interviews by the cove… this place is photo gold."
Rozenn laughed, caught up in their excitement.
She shook her head to clear it. "We should grab coffee before the morning meeting," she said, stepping back. "I don't know about you, but I have to process this slowly."
They got on the elevator and ascended to their floor.
As the group dispersed towards their various seats to begin work, Rozenn slipped through the side door to the break room, where the aroma of fresh espresso was as faithful as always. She poured a double shot, hands still trembling from the thrill of upcoming festivities, and leaned against the counter. The resort announcement lurked in her mind like the start of a grand novel—and she, the unwitting heroine, balanced at the precipice of the next chapter.
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By mid-morning, the buzz had rippled through every department. Partners paused in the hallway to swap theories about the gala's dress code—black tie optional? white tie encouraged?—while junior associates debated whether the beach volleyball tournament would really count toward billable hours. The lobby's sleek touchscreen aboard the announcement board allowed staff to RSVP for workshops, and everyone was clustering around it in small knots, tapping names, sending confirmations, and giggling at the prospect of Pilates at dawn.
Back on the 19th floor, Rozenn's inbox was crammed with calendar invitations: "Retreat Orientation," "Beach Mock Trial Sign-Up," "Spa Session Reservation," and "Gala Seating Arrangement Poll." Her calendar looked like a mosaic of colored blocks, and she laughed as she flagged each one: yes, yes, yes, and—tentatively—maybe. She knew the gala dinner was where things got truly tumultuous: tuxedos, ball gowns, candlelight, perhaps even an unexpected speech or proposal. And she also knew that Mr. Grey would be there, all cool detachment and tailored suits, perhaps with his sister Elia at his side this time—there to stir champagne glasses and tease him mercilessly in public.
Her colleagues seized on her reverie as soon as she re-emerged.
"Soren says you have to bring a flower crown," Kim declared, brandishing a literal palm frond. "It's island chic, babe."
"Don't even joke," Rozenn scolded, though she couldn't keep the grin off her face. "I am not doing a flower crown."
"Fine," Lisa said, arms folded dramatically. "But we are definitely doing a group polaroid in front of the ocean."
"Ocean," Larry added dreamily, tapping his phone. "Did you see they're renting paddleboards for team-building? I call dibs on turquoise."
Alan snapped his fingers. "And I'm hosting the mock trial, so prepare your best beach court attire. I'll need a bailiff—you in, Rozenn?"
She laughed and shook her head. "I'll serve cupcakes instead."
Onda snorted. "Is there a cupcake workshop? Because I'm signing up immediately."
Soren waved at Rozenn. "Hey, can I get a quote? 'Rozenn Eirwen on why the Grand Harrington retreat is the highlight of the year.' I want it for my photo captions."
"'It's going to be the best excuse ever for a legal firm to play in the sun,'" she quipped. "Is that good?"
"Perfect," he said, already snapping her photo.
Amid the camaraderie, Rozenn's thoughts drifted again to the schedule. Three days away from Grey's Law Firm meant three days away from the routine of memos, depositions, and Mr. Grey's enigmatic glances—or would it? Inevitably, she would run into him on the beach, in the wind-tousled boardwalk, or perched at the head table beneath the fairy lights. Would he look at her the same way at sunset, with the ocean's reflection dancing in his eyes? Would he tease her publicly, or retreat into his professional reserve outside the office walls? The possibilities were as endless as the sea.
Her musings were interrupted by the firm-wide announcement via intercom: "Attention, everyone: please check your emails for the Anniversary Retreat Orientation meeting at 3:00 p.m. in Conference Room 7A. Attendance is mandatory." A collective cheer rose through the cubicles. Mandatory attendance—offices across the hall had begun throwing pens in the air like confetti.
Rozenn's afternoon slid by in a swirl of routine—client calls, a quick touch-base with her mentor, the hum of printers—but her focus kept drifting to the retreat. At precisely 2:50, she slipped out of her cubicle and headed down to the conference room, rehearsing polite interest and questions about the workshops. She arrived at 7A early and took a seat at the long mahogany table, notebooks and pens arranged in front of her like soldiers awaiting orders. By 3:00, the room was nearly full: partners in their finest suits, associates in sharp pencil skirts and crisp slacks, paralegals clutching agenda packets. All eyes were on the front podium, where the managing partner—an imposing figure in a charcoal pinstripe—stepped up to speak.
"Good afternoon, everyone, and welcome to the Orientation for our fifteenth annual Anniversary Retreat," he began, voice resonant. "This year, we're thrilled to host our celebration at the Grand Harrington Resort, the newest jewel in the Grey family's legacy. We have an exciting three-day program scheduled, from June 4th to 6th, and attendance is, of course, required. We'll start with team-building events on the beach at sunrise—whether that means trust falls or sunrise yoga, be prepared for early mornings. Workshops will include 'Negotiation in Nature,' 'Mindful Communication,' 'Legal Ethics under the Stars,' and more. Our keynote speaker for the gala dinner will be the Honourable Minister of Justice, who has graciously agreed to join us for an evening of reflection and celebration."
At the mention of the Minister of Justice, a ripple of excitement went through the room. Rozenn remembered her colleagues' stories: last year, the Minister had given a brief, stirring speech that ended with a standing ovation; the year before, he had discreetly congratulated one of the senior partners on a landmark case's success. Now, he'd be addressing the entire firm at the Harrington's cliffside ballroom.
The managing partner continued: "On the second evening, we'll hold our gala dinner on the Grand Terrace, followed by dancing under the stars. Last year's engagement proposal was the talk of the firm—Mr. Simmons and Ms. Larson, take a bow—and who knows what romantic comedy might unfold this year? Dress code is formal: tuxedos and evening gowns, or island formal attire if you prefer a floral touch. Transportation to and from the resort is provided, as are all meals and accommodations. Please direct any questions to our retreat planning committee, whose contact details are in your packets."
He clicked off the projector, and the lights brightened. Rozenn looked down at her packet, where a glossy map of the resort awaited: the infinity pool, the boardwalk, the workshop rooms, and the Great Hall for the gala. Her pulse raced. Beach volleyball, mock trial, paddleboarding, seminars, candlelit dinner, dancing—her to-do list was burgeoning with excitement.
The meeting broke up as people stood and chatted. Rozenn lingered at the table's end, reading every workshop description with intense focus, until a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.
"Choosing your workshops?" Mr. Grey stood beside her, hands in his suit pockets, elbows bent in that subtly infuriating stance. He carried a retreat packet of his own, which he placed neatly on the table.
Rozenn looked up, startled. Her heart hesitated and then galloped. "Yes—um, I'm thinking 'Negotiation in Nature' and maybe the 'Mock Trial by Moonlight.' You?"
He scanned the list. "I'll be attending the team-building exercises at dawn—I'd like to observe how the associates coordinate under pressure. And I'm interested in 'Legal Ethics under the Stars.' The title intrigues me."
She glanced at the other items. "I hadn't thought about that one."
"It's a good opportunity," he said, tone neutral but his gaze steady. "Ethics in an informal setting can reveal a lot."
She nodded, processing both the workshop suggestion and the faint undercurrent behind it. "True."
He turned slightly, as if about to leave, then paused. "Ms. Eirwen."
"Sir?"
"Have you arranged your accommodations? I recommend the west wing—sunsets over the cliff are spectacular."
She blinked. "I'll reserve it."
He inclined his head and walked away, leaving her with a new item on her mental checklist: west wing suite, sunset view.
That evening, Rozenn returned home feeling as though she'd sprinted through a tempest of excitement and nerves. The thought of team-building at dawn—trust falls, paddleboarding races, beach mock trials—made her both exhilarated and queasy. But above it all hovered the grand gala dinner, where she'd sit near Mr. Grey at a long linen-draped table, under the glow of lanterns and the eyes of dignitaries.
Two weeks had transformed the firm's routine into an anticipatory countdown. In that time, the lobbies and hallways had become galleries of excitement: lipstick-smeared invitations pinned to corkboards, trial-balloon menus for the gala dinner floating in emails, and daily reminders of the approaching retreat. Each mention of the Grand Harrington Resort felt like a herald blowing a trumpet.
Rozenn found herself daydreaming at her desk: envisioning the sun warming her skin, the wind tangling her hair as she laughed with colleagues, the thrill of delivering closing arguments on the sand as Mr. Grey watched from the sidelines. And through it all, the flutter of possibility between them remained a sweet, unspoken undercurrent—a security deposit of hope she'd been saving for moments exactly like this.
Three days after orientation, invitations arrived for a "Pre-Retreat Cocktail Hour" hosted by Elia Grey Sanders in the firm's rooftop lounge. Flyer in hand, Rozenn allowed herself a genuine smile—family involvement meant even more spectacle, and she was ready for every moment of it.
Two weeks later wasn't just a measure of time: it was the crucible in which anticipation, rumor, and possibility melded into a glorious, roaring prelude. And as June's calendar page inched closer to the fourth, Rozenn Eirwen realized that this anniversary retreat would be unlike any before—sunlit, star-lit, brimming with legal challenges, spiritual workshops, and perhaps, if she dared to dream beyond the law, a confession or two under the Grand Harrington's moonlit sky.