Chapter 8 #2
“Valerie,” Rachel said, and there was a warning note in her tone now.
“I understand you want to pursue every possible avenue.
But presenting unsubstantiated claims would be problematic—for the case and for our credibility with the judge.
If you can provide documentation, we'll absolutely revisit this.
But I won't raise accusations I can't support.”
“This is exactly what she does.” Valerie's voice pitched higher. “She hides things. She controls the narrative. She makes herself look perfect while I—”
“The evidence doesn't support that claim.” Miller again, still calm and steady. “What we have shows complete financial transparency on her part. If there are hidden accounts, we need proof before we can allege it. Otherwise, we're the ones making unsupported accusations.”
Silence stretched for a long moment. Astoria could picture Valerie's face—the flash of fury quickly masked, the calculation behind her eyes as she assessed whether to push harder or retreat and try again later.
“Fine.” The word came out clipped. “We’ll table it. For now.”
“If you obtain documentation—” Rachel began.
“I said fine.”
She heard footsteps approaching, and Astoria forced herself to round the corner toward the restrooms as if she’d just arrived, as if she hadn’t been frozen against the wall with her heart in her throat.
She kept her gaze forward, and she didn’t look at the three women standing in the alcove as she passed.
She felt their eyes on her, anyway, and the sudden silence as they registered her presence.
The restroom door was heavy, and Astoria pushed through it with more force than necessary. Inside, the fluorescent lights buzzed the same relentless drone as the courtroom, but at least she was alone. At least no one could see her hands trembling as she gripped the edge of the sink.
She turned on the tap and cupped her palms beneath the stream, letting it pool before splashing the cool water against her face. The shock of it helped a little.
She raised her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was pale beneath her makeup, dark circles visible now that the concealer had worn thin. She looked exhausted.
Miller Scott had just defended her.
No, not defended her. That wasn’t quite right. Miller had defended the truth. She’d looked at the evidence and stated what it showed, even when her own client was pushing her to see something that wasn’t there.
Astoria gripped the sink hard, the porcelain cold and unyielding beneath her fingers.
For months, she watched everyone fall for Valerie’s performance.
The press, the public, even people who’d known Astoria for years, they all looked at Valerie and saw the victimized, wounded wife who was brave enough to escape her controlling spouse.
Astoria had stopped expecting anyone to question the narrative.
She'd stopped hoping that someone might look at the evidence and see the truth.
And now Miller Scott, of all people, had refused to present lies.
She’d contradicted Valerie directly, and Astoria knew exactly what that’d cost her.
Valerie didn’t forget when people told her no.
She didn’t forgive when someone failed to fall in line.
Miller just made herself a target, and she probably didn’t even realize it.
She didn’t yet understand the quiet, patient cruelty Valerie was capable of, the way she could make someone’s life miserable without ever raising her voice or leaving a mark.
Astoria should feel vindicated or literally anything other than this hollow ache in her chest, but she felt the wall she’d built so carefully over the past six months crack as a fissure formed.
For the first time since she’d filed for divorce, someone had chosen to see the truth over what was convenient or what Valerie was claiming.
It wasn’t much. It was nothing, really, just one attorney refusing to discredit her reputation. After all, Miller worked for Valerie and still believed whatever story Valerie had told her about their marriage. She was still, technically, the enemy.
But she was, at least, an enemy with integrity, and Astoria had forgotten what that looked like from other people.
She adjusted her blazer and looked at her reflection one more time, checking to make sure nothing showed on her face. When she was satisfied, she washed her hands then walked out of the bathroom. Recess would be ending soon, and she still had closing arguments to sit through.
Astoria slipped back into the courtroom with two minutes to spare. Gerald glanced up as she took her seat, a question in his eyes, but she shook her head slightly and he let it go. The bailiff was already calling the room to order, Judge Whitcombe returning to the bench.
“We’ll proceed with closing arguments,” the judge announced. “Ms. Hartwell, you may begin.”
Rachel rose from the respondent’s table, and Astoria watched her with renewed attention. She half-expected to hear something about offshore accounts or hidden assets or any of the other number of claims Valerie had been pushing in the hallway. Her shoulders were tight with anticipation.
But it never came.
Rachel’s arguments were thorough, professional, and grounded entirely in the evidence that actually existed.
She pushed hard on the document production disputes and made compelling points about the deposition timeline, but she didn’t mention any offshore accounts.
She didn’t plant seeds of doubt about Astoria’s financial transparency or do any of the things Valeria had demanded.
Because Miller had stopped her.
Astoria’s gaze drifted to the associate sitting beside Rachel.
Miller was taking notes again, her pen moving that fluid, rhythmic way Astoria had noticed before.
She looked the same as she had that morning, and nothing about her physical appearance suggested that she’d stood in a courthouse hallway twenty minutes ago and refused to help her client lie.
But Astoria knew, and she couldn’t stop watching.
Gerald rose to deliver their response, and Astoria handed him the relevant materials without conscious thought. Her mind was elsewhere, turning over what she’d witnessed and trying to make sense of it.
The hearing wound down. Judge Whitcombe issued rulings on the remaining motions, set dates for the next proceedings, and adjourned court for the day.
Around Astoria, people began to move and filter toward the exits.
She stood slowly, tucking her notebook into her bag, buying herself precious moments to compose her expression into something more neutral.
Gerald was beside her, already talking about next steps, but his voice sounded distant.
“—review the rulings tonight and send you a summary. We should discuss strategy for the depositions before—”
“Tomorrow,” Astoria said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Gerald paused, studying her face. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, just tired.” She managed something that could have passed for a smile. “It’s been a long day.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Astoria moved toward the aisle, joining the slow stream of people emptying the courtroom. She kept her gaze forward and her posture straight.
In the hallway, the afternoon’s crowd had thinned. Astoria was heading toward the elevators when she saw Miller emerging from the courtroom a few paces behind her. Their eyes met briefly, and Miller gave a small, professional nod. Astoria returned it and kept walking.
It was the same as it’d always been: routine, meaningless nods exchanged. But Astoria found herself thinking about it anyway as she pushed through the doors and stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
The drive home took almost forty minutes, and Astoria spent every one of them replaying the conversation she’d overheard.
The words kept circling back, persistent as an earworm song she couldn’t get out of her head.
She’d heard plenty of people defend her over the past six months—Gerald, her PR team, the handful of friends who’d stuck around despite the scandal—but they were paid to defend her, or they’d known her long enough to trust her version of events.
Their loyalty was expected, earned, or transactional.
Miller Scott owed her nothing.
Astoria turned onto the coastal road, the late afternoon light gilding the water gold and copper.
Spring had finally arrived in earnest, and the air through her window was soft and warm, carrying the scent of salt from the ocean.
On any other day, she might have appreciated it, but today, she barely noticed.
Valerie would retaliate; that was inevitable.
She’d find some way to punish Rachel and Miller for their defiance, some subtle cruelty disguised as disappointment or concern.
Astoria knew that playbook, had lived it.
Part of her wanted to warn Miller somehow, but that was impossible.
They were on opposite sides of a lawsuit, and Miller wouldn’t believe her anyway.
It’d be interpreted as the ice queen trying to turn Valerie’s own attorney against her, only confirming everything Valerie had said.
So Miller and Rachel would learn the hard way, just like everyone else eventually did.
Astoria pulled into her driveway and stopped the car, but she didn’t get out. The house rose before her, and the ocean stretched beyond the cliff’s edge. She’d bought this place after filing for divorce. It was smaller than the home she’d shared with Valerie, but it was all hers.
Most days, though, it just felt empty.
She sat and stared at the water through the windshield as a gull cried out somewhere nearby, a sharp and lonely sound against the waves.
Miller Scott wasn’t what she’d expected.
Astoria had braced for attack dogs, true believers who’d swallowed Valerie’s story whole.
Yet it didn’t change anything, and the case would grind forward.
Nothing that had happened today would alter that trajectory.
But something had cracked open inside her anyway. For the first time in six months, someone outside her own circle had stopped to consider the truth.
It was such a small thing that shouldn’t matter this much, yet…
She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat and walked toward the front door, the ocean mist cool against her face. Hope was a liability—she knew that better than anyone—and meant lowering your guard and leaving yourself open to disappointment.
But as she stepped inside, Astoria couldn’t stop thinking about what today might mean.