“I am aware, Your Honor,” I replied, keeping my tone level even though my heart was pounding against my ribs like a frantic, caged bird. “However, this specific evidence only came into my possession seventy-two hours ago. I believe it is imperative that the court—and Mrs. Chandler—review it before any legally binding documents are finalized.”
Lenora’s smirk faltered for a fraction of a second. It was a microscopic crack in the porcelain mask she wore as the grieving, betrayed wife.
“This is absurd,” Pratt intervened smoothly, dismissively waving a hand. “Your Honor, my client has been incredibly patient throughout this ordeal. Mr. Chandler already agreed to these specific terms during our mediation sessions. He cannot be allowed to stall the proceedings simply because he is having second thoughts about the financial reality of his obligations.”
“I can if those terms were built on a foundation of fraud,” I said.
That single word hit the center of the courtroom like a live grenade.
Fraud.
Lenora’s expression shifted from confidence to confusion, then to something bordering on raw, primal terror in the span of a few heartbeats. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair, her expensive designer blazer suddenly appearing to stifle her.
“What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice rising to a shrill pitch. “What fraud?”
I didn’t give her an answer. I didn’t even grant her a glance. Instead, I reached into the interior pocket of my weathered suit jacket and withdrew a plain manila envelope. It was an unremarkable brown thing, the kind you buy in bulk at any office supply store.
But inside that envelope was the absolute truth.
