Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
Jenna
Technically, you’re not supposed to let clients see you sweat, but the human body has its own opinions on that and mine is, right now, a small, humiliating lake beneath the fitted armholes of my best navy suit.
I press the back of my hand to my hairline and hope no one notices, then realize that everyone in this hallway is too self-involved or deeply sedated to care about the inner workings of Jenna Davis’s—now Kirillov’s—armpits.
Colton stands at the windowsill, hands clasped behind his back, staring down at the traffic like he’s planning to jump. Not in a tragic, poetic sense—more in a “Would I survive that and what then?” way. And I can’t blame him.
We just had our last hearing. At least for now because even if we’re granted full custody of Livy, this isn’t going to be over for a long time.
No one wants to take Livy from her mother forever.
She’ll have to prove that she wants to be in Livy’s life and maybe we can arrange some different settings in the future, but that means more courtrooms. But for now, we’re just waiting for the judge’s decision.
Livy sits cross-legged under the windowsill, buried in my tablet.
She doesn’t look up, not even when I tell her the Wi-Fi password.
There’s a plush falcon peeking out from her backpack, which I choose to interpret as a good omen, because if today goes badly, I’m going to need at least one.
After all this time, Livy and her dad became my life.
I can’t afford to let that slip away from me again.
“Do you want some water?” I ask, not sure which of them I’m even addressing. Livy mumbles, “No thanks,” without looking up, and Colton shifts his weight just enough that I know he heard me but is pretending not to. He’s nervous. But I am too.
Botox Batman glides past us with a coffee cup that definitely contains something stiffer, and Mira is trailing two paces behind, punching angry texts into her phone with the same ferocity I imagine she once reserved for Colton’s face.
She jerks her head up and looks at me, and I know she deeply hates me. Oh, I know. But the feeling is mutual.
And then judge Brennan pokes his head out. “Davis and Goldblatt?”
I take a deep breath, which does nothing, then another, which also does nothing, then collect my bag, my notes, and all the bits of myself that are not currently liquefied.
Colton bends down and whispers something to Livy in Russian.
She tips her face up to him and blinks like a puppy trying very hard to understand important instructions.
When I glance back to give her an encouraging smile, Colton’s parents are already at her side.
My stomach drops a little at the sight.
His mother looks stronger than she did a week ago, color returning to her cheeks. But recovery is relative. We all know what waits on the other side of this hearing: more tests, more doctors, the looming reality that she’ll probably need a kidney transplant soon.
One crisis at a time, I tell myself.
Today, we survive this one.
The hearing is supposed to be “closed,” which means only the essential parties are allowed, but the courtroom feels crowded anyway: two lawyers, two clients, and the presence of six separate bureaucratic deities who all have something to say about what makes a family.
Judge Brennan looks even less amused to see us than last time.
He sighs and starts with his conclusion.
“The court finds that, while both parents have exhibited lapses in judgment, the current custodial arrangement is in the best interest of the child. Effective immediately, primary custody is transferred to Mr. King, with supervised visitation for Ms. Kirillov each weekend, subject to the ongoing review of Family Services.” He glares over his glasses.
“If Ms. Kirillov can demonstrate consistent, responsible caregiving, the court will consider expanding visitation to include overnights in the future.”
Colton takes my hand and I squeeze it with watery eyes.
We did it. We actually did.
“We won,” I say and he leans in and kisses me in front of everyone.
“Like I said, you are the best lawyer there is.”
I notice Goldblatt sweeping by with a huff and a tight-lipped smile that promises retribution in a thousand legal filings.
Mira barely looks at Colton, but I catch the glare she sends me and, for a second, I feel a flicker of what she must feel: the cold sting of losing something you were sure you’d already won. Delusional bitch.
Outside the courtroom, it’s chaos. Ethan is waiting for us and as soon as we step into the hallway, he starts talking in a low, urgent voice about “media handling” and “preapproved statements.” Colton waves him off, and I think Ethan wants to strangle him but thinks better of it. Too many lawyers, I guess.
Livy stands next to me, clutching the falcon and looking up with those giant, unblinking eyes. She says, “Can I really stay with Daddy?”
I crouch down, so we’re at eye level, and say, “Yes, bug. That’s what you wanted, right?”
She nods with a big, big smile and lets the falcon peck at my hand, then giggles. “Thank you for saving us, Jenna.”
Colton approaches, his hands in the pockets of his stupidly expensive overcoat. “Thank you,” he says, in a voice that’s almost too soft for his size. “This means everything.”
“It’s not over,” I say, because I can’t let a win go unpunished. “You have to actually be a good parent, or they’ll take her right back. Child Services will be watching.”
“I know.” He looks at Livy, and something in his face goes unguarded for a millisecond. “I will not let her down.”
I stand up again and kiss him. “I know.”
Ethan appears again, not even blinking at me. “Colton, you’re on The Dirty Jersey in forty minutes. Can we take your car or—?”
“Sure,” Colton says to Ethan and turns back to me. “Then I’ll see you at home? I hope your best friend is nice to me.”
“Of course,” I say. “But maybe she’ll roast you a little.”
If you’ve never had a post-trial hangover.
It’s kind of like getting over the flu but with more e-mails and less soup.
I spend the rest of the day in a fugue state, frantically drafting the official custody order, responding to five million “urgent” client requests, and deleting a series of congratulatory e-mails.
Every so often, I check my phone to see if Colton needs something. He doesn’t. Not a single message. I just hope Isla is nice to him. She can be a handful to be honest.
By 5 p.m., I’ve hit the kind of existential fatigue where you start wondering if your office plants would eat you if left alone long enough. I’m starting to fantasize about my couch and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s when my phone buzzes. It’s Isla. No emojis.
Isla
You need to come over ASAP. Like, for real.
I debate ignoring her. I lose. Why would she text me this? Did something happen with Colton?
Jenna
Is this about the podcast?
Isla
Just come. I need to show you something.
Isla
I have wine.
If there’s a more effective bribe, I haven’t seen it. I type out a quick check-in to Colton.
Jenna
You got Livy tonight? Everything ok?
Colton
All good. She is watching cartoons. I am making dinner.
Jenna
I’ll be late—friend emergency.
Colton
No problem. Be safe.
I stare at the “Be safe” for a weirdly long time, then close my laptop and start packing up. The office is already empty, the cleaning crew’s vacuum sounding like a distant lawnmower. I wish I had a more dramatic exit, but my badge doesn’t even make the security guard look up when I leave.
Isla’s place is right around the corner from Colton, which means it’s both absurdly expensive and decorated like a Pinterest board: houseplants, throw pillows in shades of “cerulean” (not blue, don’t call it blue), and an entire wall of framed dog portraits.
She opens the door in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt that says, “Don’t Speak Until I’ve Had My Podcast.”
She looks at me for a second before hugging me so hard I feel my spine realign.
“You okay?” she says, into my hair.
“Define ‘okay,’” I say, muffled, getting the strange feeling that something’s off. She lets go and steers me to the couch, where a bottle of red and two glasses are already waiting. I pour myself a triple and wait for the other shoe.
“You’re stressing me out, Isla,” I tell her, dropping into the absurdly soft cushions of her couch. “What happened? Is it good or bad?”
She winces and I know it’s going to be bad, bad. I glance around the room, unable to meet her gaze as she rummages for whatever it is she wants to show me.
Usually, her apartment feels like the physical manifestation of a deep breath.
Everything is warm lighting and beige colors and blankets arranged in ways that make you want to take a picture.
It smells faintly like vanilla and expensive candles.
Being here usually lowers my blood pressure on contact.
Usually.
“Just listen,” Isla says, pressing her phone into my hand. It’s the episode she just recorded. So, it has to do with Colton.
Shit. What did he do?
The episode is already queued, and I brace for the usual opening: “Welcome back to The Dirty Jersey, where we talk sex, scandal, and all the things your mother warned you about—” Isla’s voice, as always, sounds like espresso spiked with honey.
The guest intro is the usual spin: “Today, we have hockey legend Colton King, who’s in the middle of the custody case to end all custody cases—” There’s laughter, banter, an awkward attempt at a “Hottest Dad in the League” joke.
I’m waiting for the disaster, but it’s all pretty standard until Isla asks, “What’s been the hardest part of all this for you? ”
There’s a long pause, the kind they edit for drama. Then Colton says, “It is strange, being the bad guy. I was always told to win, to fight for my family. Then suddenly, I am the monster.”