Chapter 13
Logan
The courtroom carries that hushed tension that settles over a room where everyone knows something important is about to happen.
I sit in the second row, close enough to see the faint tremor in her fingers but far enough that I can’t reach her.
My knee keeps bouncing until Asher presses his hand down on it.
I close my eyes, will my leg to relax, and inhale through my nose.
The wooden benches are too narrow. Every shift of weight makes a soft scrape that sounds louder than it should. The air feels thin. Like it’s been breathed too many times already.
She stands at the front with her attorney. Every bone in my body yearns to shield her. I know I can’t. Not from this.
I study her posture. Her spine is straight, and she lifts her chin as she scans the courtroom. She’s dressed tastefully in a navy pencil skirt, blazer, and a blouse in almost the same shade. She has her hair pulled back into a low bun.
Her ex sits at the opposite table, leaning back as if this is a networking event rather than a hearing.
He exudes smug confidence like he’s already won this battle.
One arm slung over the back of his chair.
Mouth tipped in that same half-smile he wore in the diner when he talked over her.
When he cut her off. When her voice went small and then disappeared entirely.
My jaw tightens. That rat bastard.
I remember the way her hands shook around her coffee mug that day.
The way her shoulders curled inward, as if she could make herself physically smaller and survive him that way.
I’d watched the light drain from her face in real time.
Watched her blink too fast. Watched her swallow words she deserved to say.
She doesn’t look small now.
The clerk calls the case. Papers shuffle. The judge peers over reading glasses. Her ex’s attorney stands first, voice smooth, almost bored. Mentions fiscal irresponsibility. Mentions “concern for asset preservation.” Mentions her as if she isn’t five feet away.
I don’t look at him. I look at her.
Her shoulders stiffen for half a second. Just a flicker. Then they settle. She inhales slowly through her nose. Her countenance changes.
Good. Breathe, sweetheart. Just breathe.
Asher shifts beside me. Our thighs press together. I can feel him tracking her the same way I do.
The attorney keeps talking. Numbers. Accounts. A subtle implication that she “lacks the acumen” to manage the settlement she’s owed.
My molars grind.
She glances toward the gallery.
Not at the ex.
At us.
Her eyes find mine.
For a heartbeat, the room falls away. No polished wood. No judge. No word-vomiting attorney. Just her gaze locking onto mine.
I don’t nod. I don’t smile. I just hold her eyes and let her see exactly what’s there.
I believe you.
Her mouth firms.
When it’s her attorney’s turn, her hands rest flat on the table. Her husband doesn’t know it yet, but I can feel it in the air. The predator thinks he’s hunting, but our Josie isn’t prey. She’s the hunter lying in wait.
The lawyer asks her to clarify her role in managing their joint investments during the marriage.
Her ex shifts, as if bored.
She doesn’t look at him. She looks at the judge when she answers questions calmly. Her voice carries. Her words are neither loud nor sharp but very clear. It reaches the back of the courtroom without strain.
Something in my chest loosens.
The attorney prompts her about the business account. About the property sale. About the budget projections she created when he wanted to expand.
Each answer lands steady. No apology woven into the edges. She references dates. Percentages. Decisions. She corrects a number without looking flustered.
Her ex’s smile thins.
I watch him instead now.
He leans forward. Fingers steepled. Eyes narrowed slightly, like he’s waiting for her to trip. Waiting for her to falter the way she used to when he raised his voice.
She doesn’t.
Josie
I feel Richard staring at me and swipe my sweaty hands against my skirt.
The air in the courtroom shifts, or maybe it’s just inside my chest. The rattle of the ventilation system grows louder. The soft tapping of the court reporter’s keys sharpens into something metallic and relentless. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
Don’t look at him.
Don’t look.
Don’t. Look.
I do.
His gaze finds mine instantly, like he’s been waiting for it. There’s that same faint curve to his mouth. The one that used to make me question my own math, my own memory, and my own worth.
The courage I’ve been holding like a stack of neatly balanced files slips. My spine softens a fraction. Heat crawls up my neck. My fingers curl against the edge of the table, nails pressing into polished wood.
He tilts his head slightly.
It’s subtle. No one else would notice. But I know that look. It says, “Go on. Let’s see how long this act lasts.”
My stomach tightens. For a heartbeat, I’m back in our kitchen, bills spread across the counter, his voice low and patient while he explains why my projections were “cute” but unrealistic. I hear the clink of his coffee mug. Feel the way I shrank, inch by inch.
I try to focus on the here and now before I get trapped in those dreadful memories. The courtroom smells like lemon cleaner and old varnish. The air is thick with perfume and stale coffee.
Focus.
I drop my gaze to the papers in front of me.
White. Crisp. Organized.
My name printed neatly at the top of the financial summary. Attached certifications listed beneath it.
Diploma in Bookkeeping.
Advanced Accounting Certification.
Business Management.
I press my fingertips flat against the page, grounding myself in the texture of the paper. Smooth. Real. Solid.
I remember the kitchen table in my apartment, textbooks spread out under a single lamp. The faint hum of the refrigerator at two in the morning. Highlighters bleeding through cheap printer paper. The way my eyes burned as I worked through depreciation schedules and tax code scenarios.
I remember the first test I aced. The red 98 at the top. The professor’s note in the margin: Excellent analysis.
No one handed me that.
I earned it.
The attorney asks another question. Something about quarterly projections during the proposed expansion.
My throat feels tight, but I swallow through it. I know this answer. I built those spreadsheets cell by cell. I stayed up reworking the numbers when supplier costs shifted. I recalculated risk ratios while he slept.
I lift my chin slightly and look back at the documents instead of at him. Dates. Figures. Clean columns of black ink.
My breathing evens out.
When I finally look up again, I don’t look at my ex.
I look past him.
Logan sits in the second row. Broad shoulders angled forward, forearms braced on his knees. He isn’t smiling. He isn’t trying to rescue me with a reassuring nod.
He just watches me like I already know what I’m doing.
There’s no question in his gaze. No flicker of doubt. Just quiet certainty, like he’s waiting for me to remember something obvious.
You can do this.
The tightness in my chest loosens like a knot being worked free.
The courtroom comes back into focus.
The black robe behind the bench. The federal and state flags flanking the judge. The faint creak of the wooden railing as someone shifts in the gallery. The soft rustle of fabric as my attorney adjusts her jacket. The steady click of keys from the court reporter.
This is just a room.
Just numbers.
Just facts.
I’m good with facts and numbers.
My palms are still damp, but they don’t shake when I fold them neatly on the table. My shoulders roll back without me forcing them.
The attorney repeats the question.
I meet the judge’s eyes this time, not my ex’s.
“Yes,” I say.
My voice doesn’t waver. It carries across polished wood and stale air and lands exactly where I intend it to.
As I explain the budget projections, I see the spreadsheet in my mind. Revenue streams. Operating expenses. Contingency buffers. I walk through it the way I practiced, the way I studied.
When I reference the corrected percentage, I don’t glance at my ex to check his reaction. I don’t search the room for approval.
I know the number.
I say it.
There’s a pause.
I feel his gaze on me again, heavier now. Testing. Probing for cracks.
I don’t give him an inch.
I turn back to the judge.
My hands rest still on the table. My spine is straight, and my voice is clear.
I am not the woman who folded in on herself over a cup of coffee.
I am a fully qualified businesswoman.
And I’m done letting my ex define what that means.
Asher
The judge finishes speaking.
For a second, the courtroom remains perfectly still.
Then Jeremy sucks in a breath beside us, pumps a fist, and hisses, "Yesss."
A grin breaks across Logan's face.
Across the aisle, Richard's attorney immediately starts gathering folders. Papers disappear into a briefcase. A legal pad gets snapped shut.
Richard remains seated for a half heartbeat longer. Long enough to watch his attorney pack up and leave him behind. Long enough for the color to drain from his face. Long enough for me to enjoy it.
I turn toward Logan. He catches my gaze. The look that passes between us reminds me of standing on a football field twenty years ago with mud on my uniform and forty seconds left on the clock. We'd never needed words then either.
Logan bumps his shoulder against mine.
I laugh and nod.
Then we both stand.
At exactly the same moment.
Some habits never leave.
The courtroom comes alive around us as chairs scrape across the floor and attorneys exchange handshakes. The clerk begins organizing paperwork while, somewhere behind me, somebody is already discussing another case.
I barely notice any of it.