In the courthouse hallway, with blood on my lip, I felt strangely calm.
Because this was the last move they made thinking I was powerless.
And I had been waiting for them to show the world exactly who they were.
A court officer stepped toward us, face tight, voice controlled.
“Ma’am,” he said to Emily, “you need to step back.”
Emily lifted her chin like she was offended.
Linda reached for her arm. “It’s fine,” she cooed. “She’s emotional. Divorce brings out such… instability.”
Instability.
Linda always loved that word.
It was her favorite way to describe any woman who refused to be controlled.
The officer’s eyes flicked to my mouth, the small line of blood. His expression hardened.
“Assault in a courthouse is not ‘emotional,’” he said flatly.
Linda’s smile twitched, but she recovered.
Michael finally turned his head—just slightly—and gave the officer a look that suggested don’t make this bigger than it needs to be.
The officer didn’t respond to that look.
He turned to me instead.
“Ma’am,” he said quietly, “do you need medical attention?”
I shook my head once.
“No,” I said softly. “I’m fine.”
Emily scoffed. “Of course she’s fine. She’s always playing the victim.”
I still didn’t respond.
Because responding was not the point.
The point was the next room.
The next stage.
The next reveal.
A bailiff appeared at the end of the corridor, voice carrying.
“All rise. Court is now in session.”
People began moving.
Linda linked her arm through Michael’s like they were entering a gala. Emily smoothed her blazer and checked her reflection in her phone. They walked like this was already won.
Michael’s attorneys nodded at one another, confident.
I followed behind them without rushing.
Without blinking hard.
Without wiping the blood.
Let the judge see it, I thought.
Let the record show exactly what happened before we even sat down.
We entered the courtroom.
Michael took his seat beside his attorneys, stiff and pale, eyes fixed straight ahead. Emily sat behind him, smug. Linda leaned toward a cousin and whispered something with a smile.
I sat at the petitioner’s table.
Alone.
The judge’s chair was empty.
Minutes passed.
Murmurs grew louder.
“Is the judge late?” someone whispered.
“Who’s presiding?” another asked.
Linda checked her watch theatrically, then sighed loudly like waiting was an insult.
Emily leaned forward and murmured to Michael, loud enough for me to hear.
“This is embarrassing,” she said. “But don’t worry. It won’t change anything.”
Michael didn’t respond.
His hands were clenched under the table.
The door behind the bench opened.
Everyone turned.
And I stood.
Not to leave.
To walk.
read more in next page
For complete cooking times, go to the next page or click the Open button (>), and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.
