Their presence says enough.
A murmur ripples through the courtroom, ugly and thin.
Someone whispers, “She brought children to a divorce hearing?”
Someone else lets out a small laugh.
In the front row, dressed in winter white and gold jewelry that catches the fluorescent light like expensive bait, sits Vanessa Cole, Ricardo’s mistress. She crosses one leg over the other, shifts her designer handbag onto her lap, and smiles with the smug satisfaction of a woman who thinks she has already survived the worst part of the story. Beside her, Ricardo does not rise.
He only leans back, adjusts his cuff link, and lets that slow, cool smile spread across his mouth.
“Still addicted to drama,” he mutters.
He says it quietly, but not quietly enough.
You do not look at him.
That is the first crack in his comfort.
