Chapter 44
WORTH
My stomach is in a fist.
Nerves buzz under my skin—but I’m ready.
Today, I walk in as Brianna’s father. Everything else is noise.
First, I stop at work, because life doesn’t pause for anything. The elevator doors slide open on the fifteenth floor, and I say good morning and nod to passing employees, then head down the glass corridor.
Shaina’s desk sits empty. The day after she started spewing nonsense about being in my office, the HR clerk, scared of losing her job, went straight to Claire and told her everything. She handled it and terminated Shaina the next morning.
Good riddance.
I push through my door and set my briefcase on my desk. The new Paris project package is sitting atop of it: a three-inch block of paper with several tabs.
I sigh, shrugging out of my coat, rolling my shoulders once, and flip to the flagged pages. The terms are exactly as we negotiated—conservative on timeline, aggressive on quality control, plenty of outs if the market blinks. I uncap my pen and sign where the red arrows tell me to.
“Brother.”
I glance up. Henson is leaning in the doorway.
“You look like you haven’t slept,” Henson says.
Translation: you look like shit.
“I’ll sleep after the judge rules,” I answer.
Griffin steps in behind him. “You’ve got this. The case is clean. You’re the steady parent. Everybody can see it.”
“Textbook,” Henson adds. “And if it isn’t, I’ll file a textbook at the judge.”
I huff something like a laugh. “Appreciate the confidence.”
Henson sobers. “Seriously. Good luck in there today.”
My throat works around the word. “Thanks.”
We’re silent for a second, then Henson slides a small wrapped candy across my desk. “For after,” he says with a chuckle. “Because you’ll forget to eat.”
“Get out of my office,” I tell him, pocketing the sweet with a smile.
He grins. “Text when you’re done.”
They peel off, and I’m alone again with the Paris file and the clock. I initial the last page, place the stack into the outbox, and breathe once, slowly.
It’s time to go.
In the hall, Dre lifts a hand in a supportive, steadying wave. I answer with a nod I hope looks braver than I feel and step into the elevator. The doors close. For thirty seconds, it’s just me and my reflection.
My phone buzzes in my pocket as I unlock the car.
Maggie:
Just picked up Bri from school. We’ll meet you at the courthouse. She’s got her sketchbook. She’s okay.
The breath leaves me in a measured exhale.
I slide into the driver’s seat and rest my hands on the wheel, knuckles white and veins up like they want to explode. I think about Bri and how scared she must be. I think about Mya’s comforting words to her last night. And something in me cracks open again.
The drive is a blur. When I arrive at the courthouse, I kill the engine, and sit there a moment. The binder on the passenger seat is almost burning a hole in the leather. Inside, the life I built for my daughter is itemized and justified. It’s absurd but necessary.
Ryan texts just as I step onto the curb.
Ryan:
I’m inside by security. Second-floor family court. We’ve got courtroom 2B. Vanessa is here with counsel.
He meets me at the base of the stairs, jaw set. “How we doing?”
“Ready.” Because I am, even if my pulse disagrees. “Maggie is bringing Bri.”
“Good. We’re solid, Worth. Judge Martinez is efficient and thorough. We’ll lead with stability and Bri’s preferences, then education and medical continuity. Vanessa’s counsel filed a late supplemental about ‘maternal bond.’ It’s a throw, so don’t bite.”
“I won’t.”
Ryan starts walking, and I match his pace. We pass the bulletin board of schedules, the vending machines, a man in a too-big suit twisting a hat in his hands.
At the top of the stairs, the corridor opens to a row of benches. I check my phone once more, and there’s a message from Mya.
Mya:
Be there in 10.
A weight is lifted off my chest.
I wasn’t sure she’d show up today. Even after the moment we shared last night, guilt slips in over the distance I put between us. She drew those lines because she needed them. I respect that. But I won’t beat myself up for feeling what I feel.
“Two letters arrived this morning,” Ryan says, breaking me out of my thoughts. He flips his pad open. “Counselor and activity coordinator. Both are strong. I’ve got them tabbed and ready to hand them up if the judge wants them.”
Across the hall, the courtroom door swings open and a clerk calls a name that isn’t mine. I inhale, count to four, exhale, count to four. It’s a trick a therapist taught me a lifetime ago. Sometimes I remember to use it.
My phone buzzes again.
Maggie:
We’re here. Brianna wants to talk to you before you go in.
I tuck the device away and tell Ryan I’ll be right back. He nods. “Go. I’ll hold our spot.”
“Thanks.”
Down the stairs, I spot Maggie in her blue cardigan, Bri with her sketchbook hugged to her chest, eyes brave. She smiles when she sees me.
I open my arms and my daughter steps into them like she always does. And my heart finds its rhythm.
“Hey, Piglet,” I say into her hair. “You ready?”
Bri nods against my shirt. “Yes.”
I ease back so I can see her face. She chews her lip, glances at Maggie, then up at me.
“Dad, can I tell you something before we go in?”
“Anything,” I murmur, knowing what she’s going to say. “Always.”
“I think I want to try seeing Mom again. Not a lot. Not all at once. Just sometimes. With rules. And if it feels bad, I want to stop. I don’t want you to be mad.” She swallows.
“I’m not mad, sweetheart.”
Her eyes flick to mine. “I don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“You’re not,” I say, meaning it. “I’m glad you told me what you want. We’ll do it your way. If it ever stops feeling right, we change it. I’ll respect your wishes no matter what.”
Bri’s shoulders loosen a fraction. “Okay.”
“We’ll talk to the judge about what you want,” I add. “You don’t have to pick sides to love the people you love.”
“Thanks, Dad.”
I touch her cheek gently. “Thank you for being honest.”
Maggie squeezes her shoulder. “We’ll be right behind you.”
I nod, pull Bri in for one more quick hug, then straighten. “All right, Piglet. Let’s go.”
Finally, we’re called in.
Vanessa is already at the counsel table with her attorney, and turns when we enter, giving me a sly smirk, the kind that says she thinks she’s going to win before the first word is even on the record.
My mouth is halfway to a reply I’ll regret when Ryan’s hand lands on my forearm. I clamp my jaw shut.
Vanessa shifts her attention to Brianna. For a second, I see the old softness in her eyes. Brianna feels the look, stiffens, and darts her gaze to the floor.
The clerk rattles through the preliminaries. Then Judge Martinez enters in her black robe and lays out the ground rules: time limits, order of presentation, what she’ll consider, what she won’t. It’s brisk, clear, a map I can walk.
Mya isn’t here yet, but just as the thought burrs under my skin, she slips in, quietly, eyes scanning the room until they find us.
Our gazes catch. She winces and mouths ‘sorry.’ I give her a small smile I don’t have to try for. She made it. That’s all that matters.
Counsel goes first. Vanessa’s attorney paints a soft picture: maternal bond, renewed stability, earnest intent.
Then he goes after me: tabloid clippings, gala photos, the “playboy CEO image” narrative he hopes will stick.
He says ‘image’ like it’s evidence and tries to make headlines stand in for parenting.
Ryan doesn’t bite. When it’s our turn, he lays brick: school records, medical continuity, extracurriculars, Bri’s stated preferences, a home that’s been steady and safe for years.
He adds that I’m now married, and that my wife has a strong, supportive relationship with Brianna that reinforces—not replaces—my role as her parent.
Questions follow. Judge Martinez to Ryan, to the other side, then to me.
I keep my answers clean: Bri’s routine, who gets her to school, who signs the forms, who meets with teachers.
When Vanessa’s lawyer prods at money and reputation—your dating history, Mr. Miller? Frequent companions? I refuse the bait.
“My personal life has never interfered with Brianna’s care,” I say. “Her needs come first. Always. And my marriage has only added extra stability to her day-to-day life.”
When the judge asks about Bri’s wishes, Ryan cites the counselor’s letter and notes she prefers to speak through counsel. Martinez nods, satisfied.
It feels like hours and minutes at once. I grip the edge of the pew and keep breathing.
“I’m ready to rule,” Judge Martinez says.
She acknowledges Vanessa’s intent, notes the recent effort, then turns to the weight of evidence.
“On balance,” she says, “it is in the best interest of the minor child that primary residency and decision-making remain with Mr. Miller.”
My ears ring. I keep my face steady for Bri.
The judge continues. “Ms. Albright will have partial physical custody and visitation as follows: on the child’s terms, to be scheduled in consultation with Mr. Miller and the child’s counselor.
The child’s comfort and consent will guide frequency and duration.
If at any point the child expresses discomfort, visits will pause and be re-evaluated.
Parties will communicate through counsel as needed. ”
Ryan’s pen moves on his pad. Behind me, Maggie exhales as if she’s been underwater. Bri’s fingers wrap around Mya’s. Relief sweeps through me slowly and I finally feel like I can breathe.
The judge bangs the gavel once. “That is the order. We are adjourned.”
Vanessa’s attorney leans in to talk to her. She doesn’t look at us as we stand.
I turn to Bri first. “You okay, Piglet?”
She nods, eyes bright. “Yeah.”
Mya squeezes her hand, then meets my gaze over my daughter’s shoulder. There’s pride there, and something warmer. I give her a small, grateful nod. No words will cover how much she means to me.