His *almost* corner office, much like the man himself, was a study in cold efficiency: steel-gray decor, clinical lighting, and a single framed photo of his wife—fat, frowning, yet wealthy beyond comprehension.

“Marry for love, and you’ll find yourself summer associate again in your 40s,” he’d once remarked at a firm retreat, his voice a slow, venomous drawl. The room had laughed uneasily, unsure if it was a joke...or a warning.

THE BOLTONS OF SEATTTLE

Roose Bolton: A calculating, sociopathic senior associate specializing in asset management (but known for his "other methods"), now circling equity partnership like a predator around wounded prey. Known for billing clients for phantom hours and his surgical efficiency with email chains.

Fat Wife: A trust fund baby from Bellevue. Roose’s marriage to her wasn’t so much a union as it was an annexation. Her family wealth quietly funded his climb to the upper echelons of Perkins Coie. The dowry, though Roose never called it such, had bought him not just a house in Medina but a portfolio of clients who’d never noticed the thinly veiled contempt in his every word.

Ramsay Bolton: His deranged, autistic son from a prior marriage. Ramsay—already a cautionary tale in nepotism—spent a disastrous summer in the firm’s Corporate Compliance group, where his “creative” approaches to document preservation (a crossbow and lighter fluid incident) became legend.

Roose’s latest conquest? A mid-level associate named Dustin, who’d been passed over for Of Counsel twice and whose bitterness was ripe for harvesting. Dustin sat across from him now, a hollow shell of ambition and caffeine shakes. Roose’s voice slid across the desk like a knife through warm flesh.

“Dustin, you remind me of a certain kind of associate. One with... potential, but also with needs. A mentor, someone to guide your... frustrations into something useful. Billable.”

Dustin nodded, desperate for any hope of relevance, unaware that Roose was less mentor than butcher.

THE STRATEGY

Roose had long realized that partnerships weren’t won through raw talent but by outlasting your rivals and ensuring the rest were... "removed." His methods were surgical:

The Flay: He stripped his competitors bare with passive-aggressive efficiency, weaponizing late-night emails, cutting revisions, and silent but deadly CCs to the managing partner.

The Smile: A faint, chilling upturn of the lips delivered at critical moments—like the exact second an opposing associate discovered he’d strategically omitted an appendix from a brief.

The Son: Ramsay was unleashed on weaker associates—deranged emails, inexplicable pranks, and HR complaints that no one dared trace back to Roose.

Roose’s greatest obstacle now was Alan Karstark, a smug lateral hire whose pedigree (Harvard Law, Wachtell Lipton) and pretentious streak (“Garamond is so 2010”) made him a natural target.

“Karstark thinks himself untouchable,” Roose confided to Dustin. “But I’ve always believed... no associate is so safe that they cannot be ruined.”

Dustin nodded, unsure if he was a confidant or a pawn.

FINAL PARTNERSHIP MEETING

At the next all-partner meeting, Roose delivered his coup de grâce. Karstark’s latest client pitch—an extravagant presentation complete with branded firm swag—was revealed to have violated Clause 9.2 of Perkins Coie’s Ethics Manual. An anonymous whistleblower (Ramsay, naturally) had tipped off the managing partner, who now stared daggers at Karstark.

As the partners descended on Karstark like wolves on wounded prey, Roose reclined in his chair, leech-like satisfaction radiating from his eyes. Dustin, now an unwitting acolyte, observed the carnage with mounting dread.

When the dust settled and Karstark’s partnership bid was in tatters, the managing partner turned toward Dustin. “Dustin,” he began, his voice cold. “Do you know anything about this... whistleblower?”

Dustin froze, stammering as he felt the room’s collective gaze impale him. Behind him, he could hear the faintest exhalation of breath, the ghost of a smile forming on Roose’s lips.

After all, someone had to carry the blame.

In the end, Roose Bolton claimed his place among the equity partners of Perkins Coie. His strategy was simple:

Marry for wealth.

Flay your enemies.

Send your deranged son to destroy what’s left.

As he walked out of the boardroom, his faint smile returned. “A naked man has few secrets,” he muttered to no one in particular, “but a flayed one... has none.”

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5649301&forum_id=2...id.#48447299)