Chapter 12
TWELVE
Jenna
If you have ever wondered what purgatory feels like, allow me to introduce you to the family court mediation room: a pale-green chamber with soundproof walls, ergonomic chairs seemingly engineered to keep one’s lumbar spine in a state of low-grade distress, and a single faux-wood oval table positioned between opposing parties like the world’s most passive-aggressive Maginot Line.
I occupy the north pole of this formation, legal pads and my pastel highlighters arrayed before me in a way that says, Yes, I am the kind of woman who color codes emotional traumas.
Colton has shown up on time and in a navy suit that’s the closest he’ll ever get to blending in, I guess.
I’ve never seen him this nervous. In high school he always gave unbothered jock.
Today he’s different. He’s silent, eyes fixed on the middle distance as if it might check him into the boards.
I tried to lighten his mood a bit with silly jokes, but it didn’t work and also, I don’t need to cheer him up.
I’m an attorney. Not a clown. But then again, seeing him like this, sitting next to me, his strong leg shaking like an eel, and his expression between losing it and crying… If I could, I’d hug him.
To my right sits John, my junior associate.
Directly across the table, Mira Kirillov.
That she still has his name even after divorce says it all.
She reclines with all the practiced grace of a Real Housewife who’s been through two seasons and an NDA settlement.
Her blazer is so white it’s legally distinct from the color of the table, her hair so smooth it looks like she finally gave up on Photoshop and just painted it on. To her left, her attorney.
And of course I hate him. They fit together though.
It’s Marshall Goldblatt. Selfish prick. I always call him Botox Batman behind his back.
Because, well. He looks like it. It was surprising that Mira didn’t storm into our preparation room and unleash a tirade on Colton.
Typically, the ex-wives I have to deal with have a flair for dramatics, but perhaps Botox Batman had given her a solid briefing.
She could jeopardize her case if she engaged with Colton without the lawyers present.
The mediator, Ms. Antonelli, is a former prosecutor whose presence fills the room with a kind of weary authority.
Her hair is tied up in a no-nonsense black ponytail and glasses that seems to have seen every shade of human folly.
She’s clad in a tailored beige suit and holds a yellow legal pad like a shield.
“Let’s call this session to order,” she says, then turns to me. “Very well. Ms. Davis, present your opening.”
“Your Honor,” I start. “My client, Koltun Kirillov, is seeking emergency custody of his daughter, Olivia Kirillov. The evidence demonstrates a pattern of neglect by the mother, including, but not limited to, failure to provide timely medical care, repeated lateness to supervised pickups, and a home environment that the child herself has described as ‘scary’ and unsafe. We have corroboration from daycare logs, medical providers, and photographic evidence detailing the child’s injuries alongside documentation of the mother’s late-night partying habits.
My client has exercised all available legal remedies prior to this hearing. ”
The judge holds up a hand, shutting me down mid-flow. “We’re not here for a closing argument. Stick to the facts.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say, tucking my hands together to keep them from fidgeting.
Mira fixes me with a gaze so cold I can practically feel my freckles wither off my face. “That’s all lies! Livy’s been perfectly cared for, he kidnapped my child!” she says, her voice sharp enough to slice through the too-thick silence.
The air tightens. My assistant starts to say something, but I give him the fractional eyebrow—let the alpha wolves scrap before the cubs get involved, okay.
I lean in, channeling every ounce of senior associate steel that got me a windowed office before I turned thirty.
“Ms. Kirillov, anything you say in this room goes on record and can influence the judge’s decision,” I say.
“If your position is that documented neglect is ‘perfectly’ acceptable, I’ll let you clarify that for the court. ”
Mira’s jaw ticks—an almost imperceptible contraction, but I’m trained to spot microaggressions at a hundred paces. Botox Batman shifts. For a moment he’s just a human gym towel, but then I spot the vein in his temple.
The mediator taps her pen against the pad, three sharp clicks that echo around the dead space.
“Ms. Kirillov,” she says, and I notice Colton tense up next to me.
Yeah, it’s strange that she can still call herself that.
“We’re not here to relitigate personal grievances.
Let’s stick to custody and the facts at hand. ”
I slide a manila folder across the table.
“Photographs, timestamps, and daycare logs,” I say, not bothering to dress it up.
“My client’s daughter was found on three separate occasions with visible injuries and no adult supervision.
Is there a reason those logs show Olivia being picked up late over a dozen times in two months? ”
Botox Batman attempts a warm chuckle. “A working parent occasionally runs late. That’s not a crime.”
I don’t break eye contact. “Being three hours late, multiple times, when the child is under medical restriction for a healing laceration, comes much closer.”
For the briefest second, I catch Colton’s eyes.
He gives me a nod so small I could be imagining it, but it’s enough to fuel me for a week of these meetings. My peripheral vision catches John opening a tab on his Surface.
The mediator interjects. “Ms. Davis, if you have further evidence, now is the time.”
I nudge the folder toward her. “Pages four and five detail missed pediatric appointments, with documentation from both the doctor and daycare. The child’s mother was unreachable during one of these incidents.
When my client attempted to remedy the situation, he was threatened.
Page five displays text messages that confirm Ms. Kirillov was at the nail salon during those hours. ”
Mira opens her mouth as if she wanted to say something again but then closes it. She looks to her lawyer for guidance and offers nothing but a flick of her French-manicured fingers, as if swatting away an insect that forgot its place.
“Are we seriously suggesting that a single missed appointment constitutes endangerment?” Botox Batman’s voice thunders through the room. Ugh. I hate it when grown-ups raise their voice and think it makes them look more professional. It doesn’t. You look like a giant baby, idiot.
“Three missed appointments. Eight, if you count her dance lessons,” I reply, turning the knife with a smile I’ve practiced in the mirror.
The mediator, who has not blinked since we started, jots down something on her pad. “Let’s get back to the core issue: what custody arrangement is being sought?”
Mira’s voice goes brittle. “Livy needs stability. She’s in a gifted dance program, she has friends where we lives, she’s happy. She needs her mother.”
My turn to resist laughter. “Your Honor—” I start, but the judge lifts a finger, calling on Colton.
He immediately sits up straight. “My daughter is afraid to sleep alone in her mother’s apartment. She is left alone for hours. All I want is to keep her safe.”
Mira snorts. “You mean keep her from me.”
“No,” he says, meeting her eyes. “Keep her alive.”
He turns to opposing counsel. “Mr. Goldblatt. Your response?”
Botox Batman glances at his notes, then speaks in a tone that manages to sound both boring and accusatory.
“Mr. Kirillov is a single man whose professional obligations require him to travel for up to half the year. While we do not dispute his love for his daughter, it’s simply not feasible for a man in his position—without a stay-at-home spouse or dedicated nanny—to provide the consistent stability a child of Olivia’s age requires.
My client’s lateness is unfortunate but not malicious, and as any working mother can attest, occasional lapses happen.
Furthermore, the incident in question—the alleged laceration—was minor, a scratch even. ”
I bristle, but before I can object, the mediator fixes Colton again. “Mr. Kirillov, what is your plan if granted full custody?”
Colton doesn’t hesitate. “I take care of her myself. I have means. I have schedule flexibility off-season. During season, my parents are here. I’ve already arranged this. I make Livy my priority.”
The judge raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the rare treat of a witness who actually answers the damn question.
The judge narrows her eyes. “And this arrangement… you’ve considered its sustainability?
Your parents won’t be available forever, and you’re at the peak of your career.
What happens when those circumstances change? ”
“If it comes to it, I’ll walk away from hockey to raise Livy myself,” Colton says, and the weight of it fills the room. I hear Mr. Goldblatt inhale, the faintest whistle through his teeth.
But that bastard is not done. “Your Honor, I have here a copy of Mr. Kirillov’s recently signed contract extension with the New York Falcons.
” He holds it up, dramatic as hell. “He is one of the highest-paid players in the league, with significant obligations to sponsors, media appearances, and travel. He cannot simply abandon a multi-million-dollar commitment. Not without consequences to himself, his team, and his daughter’s financial future. ”