He sat there in his three-thousand-dollar suit, laughing with his high-priced shark of a lawyer, pointing a manicured finger at the empty chair beside me. Keith Simmons thought the divorce was already over. He thought that by stripping me of my bank accounts, canceling my credit cards, and isolating me from our friends, I would crumble into dust. He had even told the judge during the deposition that I was too incompetent to hire counsel.
But Keith forgot one crucial detail about my past. Specifically, he forgot whose blood runs through my veins.
When the courtroom doors eventually swung open, the smirk didn’t just vanish from Keith’s face. The color drained from his entire existence, leaving him looking like a man who had just realized he was standing on a trapdoor.
You are about to witness the most brutal courtroom takedown in the history of the Manhattan Civil Division. But before the gavel fell, there was only the smell of stale floor wax, old paper, and my own suffocating fear.
Courtroom 304 of the Manhattan Civil Courthouse was a windowless box designed to crush dreams. The air was recycled and cold. For Keith, however, the atmosphere smelled like victory.
