Suits: A Lawyer Surviving TV Chaos

Why do all legal dramas end up being crime dramas? 

Because, aside from the glamorous courtroom debates, the rest of a lawyer's daily work is incredibly boring. 

Drafting contracts, reviewing contracts, finding clients, discussing collaborations, researching cases, gathering materials— 

Eighty percent of a lawyer's job revolves around printers and photocopiers, while the remaining twenty percent isn't much different from that of a regular salesperson. 

Since joining the law firm, Martin hadn't had the chance to leave the office before nine in the evening. And because the firm operated as a partnership rather than a corporation, junior lawyers didn't even get overtime pay. 

Thankfully, weekends were still sacred. People had forgotten how hard-fought those days off were for laborers and unions in the last century; they now simply saw them as God-given gifts. 

Humans are good at forgetting. 

One day, Martin left the office building close to ten o'clock. He hopped into his sky-blue Porsche 911 and headed to Brooklyn, planning to grab something to eat at Williamsburg Restaurant. 

"Yo! My man!" 

Upon entering the restaurant, Martin fist-bumped Earl, warmly hugged the owner, Li Han, and repeatedly emphasized hygiene issues with Oleg before finally settling into a booth. 

"Everyone here loves you!" Caroline, who had clearly adapted well to her role as a waitress, chimed in. "Tonight then? Mexican chicken wrap or cheese steak pie?" 

Martin's eyes darted around mischievously. "You know my answer will always be you." 

"You're making me burn with desire!" Caroline leaned in close, whispering before giving him a long, passionate French kiss. 

It was a public place, so both Martin and Caroline had to exert considerable effort to restrain themselves from putting on a live performance in the booth. After reluctantly parting, Caroline sauntered off to the kitchen to place the order, her eyes glistening like spring water. 

Beef burger, fries, and a Diet Coke. 

Martin never wasted time deciding what to eat at this kind of restaurant. 

After serving her customers, Max came over to greet him. "Hey, Martin, you should've called the fire department before coming in." 

"You mean I'm hot?" 

Though Martin guessed what Max meant, he still played dumb. 

Max smirked and shook her head. "You know, the table I just served was scared by you and Caroline. They kept asking me how they could score with a waitress in a booth." 

Martin glanced over curiously. Sure enough, another socially awkward nerd. 

"I'm always charming, babe." 

Martin sighed helplessly, then set aside his teasing tone. "Max, have you thought about what I mentioned to you a few days ago?" 

Max put on a pained expression. "Martin, I really appreciate the opportunity, but… it's not a good time." 

A week earlier, the cupcakes Max delivered to Pearson Hardman law firm had been a hit. Seventy cupcakes were snapped up halfway through afternoon tea time. 

Upon hearing this, Martin suggested to the administrative department that "Max's Homemade Delicious Cupcakes" become one of the fixed desserts in the firm's pantry. The idea was approved by Jessica, the firm's big boss. 

But when Martin shared the news with the two struggling sisters, their reactions were vastly different. 

Caroline was thrilled, seeing it as her best chance to turn her life around and return to Manhattan. 

Max, however, hesitated and seemed reluctant. 

At three dollars per cupcake, delivering 150 cupcakes a day would bring in nearly four hundred dollars. Subtracting costs of less than a dollar per cupcake, Max could make a profit of three hundred dollars a day. Over twenty working days in a month, that amounted to six thousand dollars in pure profit—and tax-free, thanks to her extensive experience dodging the IRS. 

By Martin's calculations, Max had no reason to refuse. 

"Max, tell me honestly—are you really being chased by a thousand armed men trying to collect debts? Did you really smuggle cocaine for a Mexican drug lord and then steal his shipment?" 

Aside from that explanation, Martin couldn't think of any other reason for her hesitation. 

"Alright, fine. That was just a slight exaggeration of my tragic past. It's actually only nine hundred ninety-nine people." 

Max's words were always difficult to discern as truth or fiction. 

Martin gave an exasperated look. "Max, this is a good thing for you. At least you can pay off your bank loans." 

"I don't know what to say, Martin," Max finally said more seriously. "You know, this will ruin my life." 

"It'll rebuild your life," Martin corrected. "Given how things are for you now, I don't see how your life could get much worse." 

"Listen, Martin. Right now, I have a job as a waitress, and I can sell cupcakes here. That's enough for me." 

"I'm really grateful for your help, but if I agree, I'd need to wake up at seven every weekday to deliver 150 cupcakes—even during volcanic eruptions or earthquakes, or when I'm burning with desire—all because of that damn contract!" 

Martin's professional instincts quickly helped him understand Max's concerns. 

Her parents had divorced when she was young, and she grew up wandering with a mother who was far from qualified. This made her yearn for a stable and free life. 

A waitress job at a small Brooklyn restaurant, a side business selling cupcakes for extra cash, and a shabby apartment illegally sublet for three hundred dollars—this was her entire world, and she was content with it. 

This sudden business opportunity felt like a pie falling from the sky, and Max instinctively resisted it. She feared the contract would destroy the stability she had worked so hard to achieve, leaving her with nothing in the end. 

Though Martin understood Max's reasoning, he didn't necessarily agree with it. 

"Max, over the past two months, I've woken up in your apartment bed three times—with Caroline, completely naked, next to me." 

Americans always liked to ramble before getting to the point. 

"I've figured out your schedule." 

"You come home at 2:30 AM to bake cakes, sleep at 4 AM, wake up at 8 AM to babysit for that model who treats her own kids like Barbie dolls, return home at 2 PM to pick up the cakes, and work at the restaurant from 4:30 PM until 2 AM." 

Max's eyes widened. "Damn it, you're a spy!" 

Martin tilted his head nonchalantly. "If you sign this supply contract, all you need to do is bake an extra 150 cakes each night and wake up an hour earlier to deliver them to the firm. The rest of the time, you can stick to your usual schedule." 

"See? Your life won't change much, will it?" 

"And don't forget—you'll earn an extra six thousand dollars a month, tax-free if you choose." 

Max seemed swayed. Even when her booth customers called for her, she just turned her head and shouted, "Shut up, assholes! I'm negotiating a big deal here!" 

Seeing the commotion, Caroline knew Martin and Max were discussing her chance to turn her life around. She stepped in to take over Max's duties. 

Martin paused, deciding to strike while the iron was hot. "Max, do you know how I got my clients?" 

"At first, we were just friends. Then I convinced them to start businesses with their laptops, helped them rent garages for almost nothing, and shared all sorts of crazy ideas with them." 

"Do you know what happened? They all became billionaires!" 

"Trust me, we're only adding to your life, not taking anything away. Before everything stabilizes, we don't need to change your current lifestyle—just make it a little busier." 

"If everything goes smoothly, whether to change or maintain your life will be entirely up to you!" 

Finally, Max was persuaded by Martin's persuasive words. "Alright, Martin. What do I need to do?" 

"Sign this supply contract and my attorney-client agreement. Then, next Monday morning, bake an extra 150 cakes and deliver them to Pearson Hardman by 7:30 AM. That's it." 

If Max had played *World of Warcraft* in 2014, she might have solemnly asked, "What's the cost?" 

Unfortunately, it was only 2007. The heroes of Azeroth had just begun their journey to Outland, currently locked in endless battles with Illidan and Kael'thas—one man against many, grinding away millions of times a week. 

Tragic! 

And Max couldn't afford any entertainment beyond rolling around in bed. 

Seeing the standoff, Earl, the Black guy who had been listening to rap at the cash register, casually walked over. "Max, poor old Earl wants to live in a villa with a white nanny before he dies." 

Max immediately grabbed a pen and signed her name on the contract. 

Martin pretended to look disappointed and shook his head. "Max, I thought I was younger than Earl." 

"Earl is my lifelong love. You can't compete with him until I send him to the national park, Martin!" 

Max looked relieved, her straightforward smile returning to her face. 

(End of Chapter)