Suits: A Lawyer Surviving TV Chaos

"Trust me, Martin—this won't work!" 

At Florence, an upscale Italian restaurant on the Upper East Side, Rachel leaned across the table, her voice low but urgent. "Extorting corporations with scandals is for third-rate lawyers from diploma mills. You're a Harvard JSD at Pearson Hardman. We *serve* capital, not fight it. Jessica would never approve!" 

Martin glanced up from his iPhone, his gaze drifting downward. Rachel's Prada blouse—unbuttoned just enough to reveal a tantalizing glimpse of cleavage—exuded a sophistication that screamed *expensive seduction*. 

"Eyes up here, boss." Rachel straightened, her caramel complexion masking a blush. 

"When did I say I'd take on BMW?" Martin set his phone aside. 

"Your 'hormonal imbalance defense'?" Rachel hissed. "Combined with BMW's 'unstable' electronic shifter? That's textbook extortion!" 

"BMW's system isn't unstable," Martin countered. "The instability lies in human adaptation to new tech." 

Rachel's brow furrowed. "Why do you always spin these… *philosophical* word salads that somehow make sense?" 

"Call it repackaged jargon. Watch." He placed his BlackBerry and iPhone on the table. 

Picking up the BlackBerry, Martin typed blind—thumbs flying. Rachel's phone chimed: 

> *Dear Rachel, Your mastery of "neuroendocrine-induced behavioral disassociation" proves your dedication. As your boss, I'll push Jessica for a raise so you can pay bills AND afford dignity. – M* 

"300 words. Flawless." Martin smirked. "Now, the iPhone." He tapped its sleek screen, pulling up a 2021 calendar. "No tactile feedback. Revolutionary, yet… disorienting. Like BMW's shifter." 

He leaned in. "Traditional automatics shift *back* to reverse. BMW's X5? You push *forward*. Under stress, muscle memory overrides logic. Amanda drove traditional cars for four years. When panicking, she yanked the shifter *back*—instinctively expecting reverse. But in her X5, that meant **drive**." 

Rachel's eyes widened as the puzzle clicked. 

"Prosecutors claim intent. But BMW's design ambiguity creates reasonable doubt. No premeditation—just tragic miscommunication between human and machine." Martin sipped his Chianti, triumphant. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury… *not guilty*." 

Rachel applauded softly. "Bravo. If I were a juror, you'd have my vote." 

Their meals arrived—Martin's deconstructed lasagna layered with coastal greens. As he savored it, Rachel studied him, fork twirling linguine. 

"Why are you… *like this*?" she mused. "One moment a comic-book geek, the next a visionary. Tonight? A legal savant. Which one is real?" 

"Curiosity about men is step one to falling for them." Martin swirled his wine, eyes glinting. "Careful, Rachel. You're playing with fire." 

She met his gaze. "So what if I am?" 

Martin replied, "Do you know my principles?"

"No relationships, no sleeping with friends' sisters, no sleeping with colleagues or clients..."

Rachel's eyes turned sly. "I told you, there are no secrets in a law firm."

Martin put down his glass, smiling wryly. "How much did Priya tell you about me?"

Rachel realized she'd just outed her informant and immediately buried herself in her food, refusing to answer any more of Martin's questions.

As candlelight danced between them, Rachel's foot brushed his under the table. "Rules are… flexible." 

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