Chapter 7
The conference room smelled like institutional carpet clear and stale coffee, the particular combination that seemed to permeate every courthouse in Phoenix Ridge.
Miller arrived early—she always did for hearings—and spread the case files across the laminate table in the order Rachel would need them: discovery motions on the left, deposition schedules in the center, and the document production dispute that had been grinding on for weeks tucked into the folder closest to Rachel’s seat.
Rachel glanced up from her own notes. “You’ve been here since when?”
“Eight-fifteen.” Miller aligned the edge of a folder with the table’s corner. “I wanted to review the timeline arguments one more time.”
“The timeline arguments you drafted.”
“Which is why I wanted to review them.” Miller sat back, reaching for her bitter coffee from the courthouse cafe. “Gerald's going to push back hard on the expedited discovery. He'll argue we're fishing.”
“We are fishing.” Rachel’s tone was mild. “That’s what discovery is. The question is whether the judge agrees our fishing expedition is justified.”
Through the small window in the door, Miller could see the corridor filling with the morning’s traffic of attorneys with dark suits and civilians milling around. Somewhere down the hall, a door closed with a heavy thunk.
She checked her watch. Valerie was due to arrive in fifteen minutes. It’d been a month since the mediation—twenty-nine days, not that Miller had been counting. She’d seen Astoria only once since then, a brief courthouse encounter where they’d talked in the hallway.
Today would be different. They’d be spending hours in the same courtroom, both teams arguing their positions, Judge Dorothea Whitcombe presiding over this procedure that would grind this divorce toward its eventual conclusion.
Miller would be ten feet away from Astoria Shepry for most of the morning.
She reached for her coffee and took a long sip. It was bitter and lukewarm, exactly what she deserved for letting her mind wander.
The door swung open, and Valerie swept in on a wave of expensive perfume, something floral and memorable, the kind of scent that announced a person before they fully entered a room.
“Good morning.” Valerie’s smile was perfectly calibrated: warm but serious, a woman preparing for battle but maintaining grace under pressure. She wore a dove-gray suit that softened her features and pearl studs in her ears. “I hope I’m not late.”
“You’re right on time.” Rachel gestured to the chair beside her. “We were just reviewing the morning’s agenda.”
Valerie settled into her seat, crossing her legs at the ankle, and directed her attention to Miller. “How are we looking?”
“Solid.” Miller pulled the relevant folder toward them. “Today is mostly procedural: temporary orders, discovery disputes, scheduling, that sort of thing. The judge will rule on the document production timeline and set dates for depositions.”
“And Astoria?” Valerie's voice carried a slight edge beneath the composure. “Will she be here?”
“We expect so.”
“Something flickered across Valerie’s face—too quick to read and gone before Miller could name it. “Good. I want her to see this. All of it. I want her to understand she can’t just throw money at this and make it disappear.”
Rachel’s expression remained professionally neutral. “Our focus today is on positioning. We're making arguments and establishing groundwork. The real battle comes later in depositions and the trial.”
“I know.” Valerie smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her shirt. “But I also know how she operates. She thinks she can intimidate people into backing down. I want her to see that I’m not backing down.”
Miller watched Valerie’s perfectly manicured hands, steady with no tremor of nervousness. Whatever anxiety she might be feeling about facing her ex-wife in court, she’d buried under layers of composure.
“We should head to the courtroom,” Rachel said, gathering her files. “Jude Whitcombe is a stickler for promptness.”
They filed out of the conference room and into the corridor. Miller fell into step behind Rachel and Valerie, carrying the backup files, already running through the morning’s arguments in her mind.
Judge Whitcombe’s courtroom was smaller than Miller had expected. It was wood-paneled and functional with none of the grandeur of the superior court chambers downtown. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting an institutional pall over everything.
Miller took her seat at the respondent’s table, arranging the files within easy reach. Rachel sat beside her, and Valerie took the chair closest to the aisle, her posture impeccable.
The petitioner’s table sat empty.
Miller busied herself with organizing documents she’d already organized twice, hyperaware of the courtroom door in her peripheral vision. People filtered in and out—a clerk conferring with the bailiff, someone from another case collecting forgotten papers—but no sign of Gerald Bracks or his client.
Then the door opened again, and Miller’s hands went still.
Astoria entered first, Gerald a half-step behind her with a junior associate trailing them both.
She wore a charcoal suit—beautifully cut, the kind of tailoring that whispered money rather than shouting it—and carried a leather briefcase.
Her hair was pulled back in a sleek twist, exposing the line of her jaw and the pale column of her neck.
Miller had seen her twice before, but something was different this time. It took her a moment to identify it. Astoria moved with the same control and settled into her chair at the petitioner's table with measured grace. Her expression revealed nothing, the ice queen facade firmly in place. And yet…
There were dark circles beneath her eyes, faint and nearly hidden under makeup, but visible now that Miller was close enough to really look.
Astoria’s shoulders were bunched up from tension and her jaw was tight, the muscles flexing almost imperceptibly.
She looked like she was someone running on caffeine and willpower.
Miller looked away, fixing her gaze on the legal pad in front of her. She wrote the date at the top of the page, then the case number.
“All rise.” The bailiff’s voice cut through the room’s quiet murmur. “The Honorable Judge Dorothea Whitcombe presiding.”
Everyone stood. Judge Whitcombe entered through the side door, a compact woman in her sixties with silvery-blonde hair and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She took her seat at the bench, surveyed the room with the brisk efficiency of someone who had no patience for wasted time, and nodded.
“Be seated. We’re here on the matter between Astoria Shepry and Valerie Shepry-Dane.” She glanced at the papers before her. “Counsel, please state your appearances for the record.”
Gerald rose first, as petitioner’s counsel. "Gerald Bracks of Bracks and Calloway, appearing on behalf of the petitioner, Astoria Shepry. With me is associate Joan Perkins."
Rachel stood smoothly. "Rachel Hartwell of Hartwell and Associates, appearing on behalf of the respondent, Valerie Shepry-Dane. With me is my associate, Miller Scott."
Judge Whitcombe made a note. "I've reviewed the motions before me. Let's start with the discovery disputes. Ms. Hartwell, you filed the motion for expedited document production. Make your argument."
Rachel remained standing, and Miller slid the relevant folder toward her without being asked. They'd rehearsed this dance hundreds of times: Rachel leading and Miller supporting, documents appearing at precisely the right moment.
“Your Honor, my client has requested financial records dating back to the beginning of the marriage. The petitioner has produced only partial records, claiming the remainder are proprietary business documents unrelated to the marital estate..."
Miller took notes as Rachel spoke, capturing key phrases and tracking the judge's reactions. This was the work of building a case, one astute observation at a time. And she was damn good at it.
Her gaze drifted to the petitioner's table.
Astoria sat motionless, watching Rachel with an expression of studied neutrality. Her pen rested in her hand, but she wasn't writing. She wasn't doing anything except listening, her focus absolute and her stillness almost unnerving.
Then her eyes closed, just for a second, a slow blink that lasted a beat too long before she straightened and the mask slid back into place.
Miller’s pen slowed. She’d seen exhaustion before.
She’d seen clients running on fumes and witnesses fighting to stay alert through tedious proceedings.
But there was something about watching the formidable Astoria Shepry struggle to keep her eyes open in the middle of a courtroom that made Miller’s chest feel strange.
Gerald rose to make his counterargument, and Miller forced her attention back to her notes.
“Your Honor, my client has been fully cooperative with the discovery process.
The documents Ms. Hartwell references are proprietary business records that fall outside the scope of marital assets.
Shepry Global Holdings is a corporation with shareholders and fiduciary responsibilities that extend well beyond this dissolution proceeding. "
Miller wrote down the key points. She noted Gerald's strategy and identified weaknesses Rachel could exploit.
And she kept sneaking peeks at Astoria from the corner of her eye.
The way her hand gripped the pen too tightly, knuckles pale against the dark barrel.
The way she shifted in her seat, as if holding still required effort.
The way she’d positioned herself at an angle that let her see both the judge and the respondent’s table without turning her head—a strategic choice, most likely, but it also meant Miller could study her profile without being so obvious about it.
The judge asked a clarifying question. Gerald answered. Rachel prepared a rebuttal.