Chapter 18 #2
She throws herself into my arms and I catch her, holding her tight, breathing her in. Vanilla and warmth and something that steadies the torrent raging through me.
“Are you okay?” Her hands frame my face, eyes searching mine.
“I’m okay. Just shaken.”
Her fingers trace the line of my jaw, and I see it—the fear she’s been carrying all morning, the weight of waiting, not knowing.
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I’m so sorry—"
“Don’t.” Her voice is firm. “Don’t apologize for doing your job. Don’t apologize for saving lives.”
But I can see it in her eyes. The cost. The toll.
Michael clears his throat gently. “We should go in. Judge Murphy doesn’t like delays.”
I pull back, suddenly aware of how I must look. “How bad is it?”
June’s lips twitch—almost a smile. “You smell like smoke.”
“I know. Nothing I can do about it now.”
“Actually...” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a small bottle of cologne. “I thought you might need this.”
I stare at her. “You brought my cologne?”
“Figured you might need it.” She sprays a light mist on my jacket, smooths the fabric with both hands. “Not perfect. But better.”
I catch her wrist, press a kiss to her palm. “Thank you.”
“Always.”
Michael shifts his weight. “Adam. Before we go in.”
My pulse kicks up. “What?”
“Sarah’s already inside.” A pause. “She looks prepared.”
I glance toward the courtroom doors. Through the small window I can see her—pale blouse, perfectly styled hair, sitting beside her lawyer with the calm confidence of someone who thinks she’s already won. They’re talking quietly, heads bent together.
Sarah’s eyes flicker toward the door. She sees me.
And she smiles.
Not warm. Not kind. Satisfied.
She thinks I look rattled, unprepared, unstable. She thinks today already belongs to her.
She has no idea what I just survived.
And she has no idea how hard I’m about to fight.
I straighten my shoulders, square my jaw. The exhaustion, the fear, the smoke still clinging to my lungs—I shove it all down.
June’s hand finds mine and squeezes. “Ready?”
I look at her—this woman who brought my cologne to a courthouse, who didn’t flinch when I walked in smelling like a fire, who’s standing beside me even though I almost didn’t make it here.
“Ready,” I say.
But before Michael can open the door, I turn to June.
She’s trying to be strong—I can see it in the set of her jaw, the careful control in her expression. But her eyes are glassy, and when she blinks, a tear slips free.
“Hey.” I pull her aside, away from the door. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head, swipes at her cheek. “Nothing. I just—" Her voice catches. “I’m scared.”
I cup her face, tilt it up so she has to look at me. “Me too.”
“You’re going to be amazing in there,” she whispers.
“So are you.”
Michael steps closer, voice gentle but firm. “June—you’ll need to sit behind the partition until you’re called to testify. You won’t be able to sit with Adam.”
She nods. “I know.”
I press my forehead to hers, just for a second. “I’ll see you in there.”
“Win this,” she says.
Then Michael opens the door, and I step inside.
Into the fight.
Into the fire.
Inside the courtroom, the air feels heavier.
Quiet—the kind that presses against your chest and makes you hyperaware of every breath, every footstep. The judge’s bench looms at the front, empty for now. Rows of wooden benches stretch between our table and Sarah’s side of the room.
Michael gestures to the left. “Our table.”
I move toward it. I can feel eyes on me—Sarah’s in particular—but I don’t look. Not yet.
We sit. Michael arranges his files with practiced precision, but my hands are restless on the table. I clasp them together to stop the shaking.
June’s not beside me. The space where she should be feels too big, too empty.
I glance back—find her on the first bench behind the partition, hands folded in her lap, eyes steady on mine. She gives the smallest nod.
I turn back to face the front.
“All rise.”
The bailiff’s voice cuts through the room, sharp and formal. Everyone stands—rustle of movement, scrape of chairs.
Judge Murphy enters. A woman in her late fifties, graying hair pulled back, expression unreadable. She takes her seat, surveys the room with a single sweeping glance.
“Be seated.”
We sit.
Michael leans over, whispers, “Stay calm. Answer clearly. Don’t react to anything Sarah or her lawyer says.”
I nod. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.
Judge Murphy opens a file, scans it briefly, then looks up.
“This is a custody modification hearing in the matter of Spencer versus Lane. We’re here to determine whether a change in the current custody arrangement is in the best interest of the minor child, Emma Lane.”
Calm. Clinical. Like she’s not holding my entire world in her hands.
“Mr. Lane.” Her eyes find me. “I see you’re requesting to maintain primary physical custody.”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“And Ms. Spencer, you’re requesting joint physical custody with equal parenting time.”
Sarah’s voice, smooth and composed. “Yes, Your Honor.”
Judge Murphy’s gaze shifts back to me—and lingers. Just long enough to notice something’s off.
I wonder if she can smell the smoke.
I wonder if Sarah’s already won.
Then the judge sets down the file and folds her hands.
“Let’s begin.”