I felt the eyes of the courtroom on me. The bailiff looked bored, checking his watch. The court reporter was typing rhythmically, capturing every insult. And in the back row, Vanessa Hunt sat like a queen on a throne. She was wearing a cream-colored cashmere dress that looked like it would stain if you breathed on it wrong. She caught my eye and offered a tiny, pitying smile, the kind you give a stray dog you have no intention of feeding.
“Mrs. Bennett,” Judge Morrison said, turning his heavy gaze toward me. “You have been very quiet. Do you have a response to your husband’s characterization of your marriage?”
I stood up. I smoothed the skirt of my red dress. Trevor hated this dress. He said it was too loud, too cheap, too “waitress at a diner.” Today, I wore it like armor. It was the color of blood, the color of a warning sign.
“Your Honor,” I said, my voice steady, surprising even myself. “I do not have a speech prepared. I am, as my husband pointed out, a simple woman. But I do have some documents I would like you to review.”
I walked to the bench. My heels clicked against the linoleum floor, a rhythmic countdown. I handed the heavy envelope to the bailiff, who passed it up to the judge.
“These are financial records from the past six years,” I explained, my voice carrying to the back of the room. “Along with a few legal documents that I believe clarify the nature of our… partnership.”
Judge Morrison opened the clasp. He slid a stack of papers out. He adjusted his glasses.
The room went silent. The only sound was the rustle of paper as the judge turned page after page.
Trevor shifted his weight. He whispered something to Helen. She shrugged, looking annoyed, checking her phone under the table. They thought this was a pathetic attempt to beg for alimony. They thought I was handing over receipts for groceries.
Minutes ticked by. Five. Ten. The tension in the room grew thicker, like humidity before a storm.
