Chapter 24
The courthouse steps were crowded with reporters.
Miller spotted them from half a block away: a cluster of cameras and microphones gathered near the entrance, waiting for someone worth photographing.
With a high-profile divorce, billionaire CEO, and months of leaked documents and whispered accusations, of course the press was here.
She'd just hoped to slip in unnoticed.
She adjusted the strap of her bag and kept walking, keeping her head down, just another attorney in a dark suit on a Monday morning.
The August heat was already building, the air thick and still, summer grinding toward its end without any sign of letting go.
By the time she reached the steps, sweat had gathered at the base of her spine.
The reporters didn’t give her a second glance. They were waiting for Astoria.
Miller climbed the steps and pushed through the heavy doors into the courthouse lobby, where the air conditioning hit her like a wall.
She stood for a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the fluorescent lighting and feeling the familiar institutional smell settle around her: old paper, cleaning solution, and the particular staleness of buildings where people came to have their lives sorted into winners and losers.
The subpoena had arrived two weeks ago from Gerald Brack’s office, requesting her testimony regarding a July 25th meeting at Hartwell this was the end of something, one way or another.
The door opened again, and Miller’s hands went still on the pad.
Astoria entered first, Gerald a half-step behind her. She wore an impeccably tailored navy suit, her hair pulled back in a twist that exposed the line of her jaw. She moved with the controlled grace Miller remembered: the ice queen, perfectly composed, giving nothing away.
But Miller knew her now. She knew her in ways that made maintaining professional distance a cruel joke.
She could see what others might miss: the faint shadows beneath Astoria’s eyes that makeup couldn’t quite hide, the slight tension in her shoulders held a fraction too high, the way her gaze swept the courtroom with practiced neutrality—and then caught on Miller and held.
Astoria’s expression didn't change. But something flickered behind her eyes before she looked away and followed Gerald to the petitioner's table. Miller stared at her legal pad. The date she'd written swam slightly, the numbers refusing to hold still.
Focus.
She was here to testify and tell the truth about what she'd witnessed in that conference room, to put Valerie's manipulation on the record. It was the right thing to do—she believed that—but it didn't make it easier to sit here, waiting for her name to be called.
At the respondent's table, Valerie leaned over to whisper something to Rachel. Her expression was pleasant and concerned, the performance of a woman bravely facing her powerful ex-wife in court. Miller watched her and felt the familiar twist of something between anger and exhaustion.
She had believed Valerie once. She had believed the tearful stories, the recounting of emotional neglect, the portrait of a cold wife who’d frozen out a devoted partner. She’d prepared arguments based on Valerie’s version of events.
And then she’d met Astoria herself.
That’s when she saw the exhaustion beneath the exterior, the vulnerability Valerie had spent years exploiting, and the way Astoria flinched at raised voices.
Miller looked at Astoria now, sitting straight-backed at the petitioner’s table, and felt the weight of everything she couldn’t say pressing against her ribs.
I’m sorry I ever believed her. I’m sorry I couldn’t find a way to stay. I’m sorry—
“All rise.”
The bailiff's voice cut through the room, and everyone stood. Miller rose with them, grateful for the interruption, for something to do besides drown in her own thoughts.
Judge Dorothea Whitcombe entered through the side door—the same judge who'd presided over the preliminary hearing back in April, sharp-eyed and efficient, with no patience for theatrics.
She took her seat at the bench and surveyed the courtroom with the brisk assessment of someone who'd seen every variation of human misery and intended to sort through this one as quickly as possible.
“Be seated.” She shuffled papers, made a note, and looked up. “We're here on the matter of Shepry versus Shepry-Dane, case number 24-CV-0847. Counsel, state your appearances.”
Gerald rose first. “Gerald Bracks of Bracks and Calloway, appearing on behalf of the petitioner, Astoria Shepry.”
Rachel stood. “Rachel Hartwell of Hartwell and Associates, appearing on behalf of the respondent, Valerie Shepry-Dane.”
Judge Whitcombe nodded, making notes. "I've reviewed the pre-trial submissions from both parties. We'll proceed with opening statements, beginning with the petitioner. Mr. Bracks."
Gerald moved to the podium, notes in hand. Miller watched him begin his argument, laying out the case that Astoria had built Shepry Global before the marriage, that Valerie's contributions were social rather than substantive, that the financial claims didn't withstand scrutiny.
But Miller’s attention kept drifting across the aisle to the straight line of Astoria’s spine, to the way her hands rested on the table in front of her perfectly still.
She was only sitting ten feet from the woman she loved, watching strangers argue over the wreckage of Astoria’s marriage while the wreckage of their own relationship sat unspoken between them.
Miller forced her attention back to Gerald’s argument. Today wasn’t about her. Today was about telling the truth and making sure Valerie’s lies didn’t win. It was all she could give to Astoria now.
The morning ground forward.
Gerald’s opening statement gave way to Rachel's, and Rachel's gave way to the first round of evidence presentation.
Documents were entered into the record and exhibits were marked and referenced, the dry machinery of divorce law clicking through its paces.
Miller took notes she didn't need, her pen moving across the legal pad in patterns that probably weren't even words.
Valerie's composure began to fray around the edges as the hours passed.
Miller watched it happen in increments: the tightening of Valerie's jaw when Gerald presented financial records that contradicted her claims, the sharp whisper to Rachel when an exhibit didn't land the way she'd expected, the way her pleasant mask slipped for just a moment when Judge Whitcombe sustained an objection in Astoria's favor.
By mid-morning, Valerie's performance of the wronged wife had developed visible cracks.
Good, Miller thought, and then felt the complicated weight of that reaction. She'd spent months working for this woman and advocating for her. Now she was sitting in a courtroom hoping Valerie would lose.
The morning recess came and went. Miller stayed in her seat, avoiding the hallway where she might run into Rachel or, worse, Valerie. She checked her phone, scrolled through emails she didn't read, and counted the minutes until court resumed.
When everyone filed back in, Gerald remained standing. “Your Honor, the petitioner calls Miller Scott to the stand.”
Miller set down her pen and pad.