Chapter 12 #2
Colton’s fists clench beneath the table, and for a moment I see the storm he keeps so well controlled.
I rest my fingertips on his forearm, just above his watch.
A small jolt travels up my arm, like touching a doorknob after crossing carpet in winter.
His eyes lock with mine, pupils dilating slightly, and the tightness around his mouth softens by a fraction.
I give the smallest nod—once. We got this.
The mediator waves a hand. “I’ll review it.” She turns to Mr. Goldblatt. “Anything else?”
Botox Batman smirks, satisfied. “Yes, Your Honor. In addition to my client’s testimony, we have a character witness present: Olivia’s maternal grandmother, Mrs. Marion Holden. She’s in the gallery today and is prepared to speak to the stability and loving environment at her daughter’s home.”
The mediator nods. “We’ll hear from Mrs. Holden after the break. In the meantime, Ms. Davis, prepare your client for direct examination. And get the child ready if I need to speak with her.”
She raps the gavel, an actual gavel not just a metaphorical one, and the court dissolves into a slurry of shuffling feet and murmured lawyer talk. I gather my folders, nudge Colton toward the door, and catch a glimpse of Mira’s face.
God, she hates me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she wants to kill me.
Outside, in the cold hallway, Colton exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “They want to make me look like a bad father,” he says. “Like I don’t care.”
I look up at him. “You did great in there. We just need to get through this next round, then let the evidence speak for itself.”
He nods, then stares down at his hands, turning them over as if searching for injuries. “Is it normal to feel like I am losing, even when I know I am right?”
“Very normal,” I say. “But we have more evidence than them, Colton.”
“But she’s the mother. Kids rarely stay with the father.”
“Livy wants to stay with you. The judge will listen to her, and the rest needs further investigation. They are right about your home situation though. Your parents aren’t the youngest and I think you said they do have some medical issues, right? Colton, we need to be prepared.”
He hesitates, and I can tell he hates what he’s about to say.
“Yeah. My dad’s already had a heart attack, and my mom… she has lupus. But they’re okay,” he adds quickly. “It’s managed. They’re doing well.”
I sigh.
They are good people.
Warm, kind—the ones you trust instinctively. And the way Colton talks about them? Like they hung the moon. It’s… a lot. In a way that makes something in my chest ache a little.
But if Botox Batman and his designer sidekick decide to weaponize medical history in court—and they will—then Colton’s parents go from loving grandparents to “unreliable childcare” in about three seconds flat. Fuck. I can’t tell him that right in the face. I just can’t right now. But it’s fact.
God, we should’ve had more time.
With a little preparation, we could’ve built something cleaner. More stable on paper. Hell, we could’ve even found him a fake wife or something. Someone to round out the picture, make his home life look less like a question mark and more like a guarantee.
Down the hall, Mira is already on her phone, gesturing wildly as her lawyer tries to steer her away from a nearby reporter. In the gallery, the grandmother sits alone, eyes closed, hands now slack in her lap, the portrait of a woman quietly preparing for battle.
Back in the courtroom, the mediator reviews the files with a slowness that borders on poetic.
“Let’s get right to it,” she finally says. “I’ve reviewed all submitted materials, including the exhibits and statements from both parties. Here’s what I see: a lot of pain, a lot of finger-pointing, and a child caught between two homes that cannot communicate except through the courtroom.”
She turns to Mira’s table. “Ms. Kirillov. Your testimony is inconsistent with the documentary evidence, particularly regarding the child’s medical care and school attendance, not to mention your decision to leave a six-year-old home alone.
I am not rendering judgment yet, but I am deeply concerned. ”
Mira’s lawyer tries to interrupt, but the mediator’s hand snaps up like a stop sign.
“You’ll have your say, Mr. Goldblatt. Right now, I’m talking.
” She swivels to me. “Ms. Davis. Your client has presented a credible case for emergency custody, but I want to hear from independent witnesses next time—teachers, daycare supervisors, and physicians—before I make a final decision.”
She scans the room, lingering on Colton.
“Effective immediately,” she continues. “The child shall remain in the care of Mr. Kirillov until further order of the court. A full review of all evidence, including direct witness testimony, will be conducted in two weeks. I expect both parties to refrain from antagonistic behavior and to facilitate the child’s access to both parents pending the final determination. ”
She leans back, clasps her hands over her stomach, and lets the silence simmer.
The words hit like a slap, and for a moment, no one moves.
Then Mira bursts into sobs—loud, shattering, the kind of sound you make when you realize the world isn’t going to bend just because you want it to. Botox Batman leans in, whispers something, and Mira nods, dabbing furiously at her eyes with a tissue. She would have been an excellent actor.
Next to me, Colton’s exhale is so forceful it rocks his shoulders forward. For the first time in days, he slouches. Damn, I want to hug him, but settle for a professional smile and a whispered, “Good work.”
“Court is adjourned. I’ll see you all in fourteen days,” the mediator says.
And that’s it.
We pack our things and file out into the corridor, a river of family members, assistants and courthouse security. Once we’re out, the midday sun cuts through the window and lands right on Colton’s face.
He squints, then grins—it’s a brief, lopsided thing, like a man who’s finally remembered how to.
And I just stand there, uselessly at his side, looking up and up and up.
I’m having the most inconvenient urge to throw my arms around him.
Me! Hugging a client! The Iron Lady does not hug clients, especially not ones with shoulders like that.
I should hate him but I’m not so sure I still do…
Mira doesn’t look at us as she passes. The anger is gone though, drained out of her, leaving something else in its place.
Something that might be vulnerability. Or maybe just exhaustion.
I can’t tell. She feels impossibly far away.
Like I wouldn’t know where to begin to understand her, even if I tried.
“Two weeks,” Colton says.
“Two weeks,” I echo. “But you can keep her for now. That’s good, considering you kidnapped her.” I still want to facepalm myself when I think of it.
He looks down at me; his blue eyes seem so soft these days. “Thank you, Jenna.”
I think about all the people who’ve ever tried to make me feel small, and for once, none of them succeed.
“Just doing my job,” I say.
It sounds too final. Like a door clicking shut.
I open my mouth again because I’m not done, because there’s something else sitting at the tip of my tongue, but I have no idea what it is. Just that I don’t want this conversation to end now.
And then Livy comes flying down the corridor at full, unrestrained child velocity, a pink backpack bouncing wildly against her shoulders. Her blonde pigtails fly like wings.
“Daddy!” she cries, launching herself into his arms.
He catches her, lifts her high, and for a second even his grim mouth cracks into a full smile. And I grin too.
I don’t often see fathers like him. But when I do, there’s always this quiet, inconvenient wish that follows… small and sharp and impossible to ignore.
That I wish I had one like him myself.
Trailing behind Livy are Colton’s parents. Even though it’s the first time I’m seeing them, I could have picked them out of any crowd and known exactly who they were. He has his father’s height and posture, but his face is his mother’s.
Colton’s mother approaches me with surprising speed and hugs me. She’s really tiny. I can’t believe she gave birth to such a hunk. How?
“Solnyshko,” she says, and I wonder what this means but I don’t have time to ask, because another high-pitched sentence with a strong accent cuts through the air before I can even react. “Thank you for protecting our little girl. This means a lot to us.”
Before I can protest, she presses a napkin-wrapped muffin into my hand. “But you need to eat after such stressful work. I make for you—chocolate and cherry.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kirillov,” I manage, trying not to crush it against my legal folder.
She beams, then turns to Livy. “You want fun park, da? I take you while Daddy talks to his lawyer.”
But Livy shakes her head, arms tightening around herself. “No. We go together. He promised.”
I watch his mom throw some rapid Russian sentences at him that sound like the gentle bubbling of a pot about to boil over.
My assistant, who has suddenly materialized beside me, checks his phone and gives me a thumbs up. “All set with the paperwork. You want me to file the supplementary evidence now or wait for the call from Judge Brennan’s office?”
“Now,” I say, handing him the updated files. “And pull the list of neutral witnesses. I want to start prepping them before opposing counsel can get them in their heads.”
He salutes—actually salutes, the idiot—then vanishes toward the elevators.
“I don’t know if we can leave right away,” I hear Colton say to Livy. “Or if I need to quickly sort something out with my lawyer first, but we’ll go right after that, okay baby?”
Livy turns to me like I’m personally responsible for the delay. Her glare is small, but devastating in a very concentrated, child-specific way. But it’s not her father’s fault. He can’t help it. He doesn’t know how these court things work.
“We should probably still take care of a few things,” I say softly, trying to ease the tension I didn’t ask for.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Colton’s mother extend her arms toward Livy, warm and hopeful, but Livy just shakes her head and clings even tighter to Colton instead. There’s something telling in it. Like someone taught her that if she let’s go of him, she can’t see him for a while.
And I don’t like the thought that follows.
That she’s been pulled away before many, many times.
That instinct alone makes my chest tighten.
I don’t want to take her from him again. Not even a little.
Then an idea flickers into place.
“But you know what?” I say instead, grabbing a bite of the muffin in my hand—which makes his mother suddenly look way too pleased with herself. And, okay, fair; It’s really good.
“I can bring my notes with me, and we can finish everything quickly at the fun park. What do you think?”
Is it complicated? Absolutely.
But the grin I get from the little girl makes it feel like the simplest decision in the world.