During the divorce hearing, my husband sat with his legs crossed, smug: “You will never touch my money again.” His mistress chimed in, “That’s right, honey.” His mother smirked, “She doesn’t deserve a single penny.”

A pale curtain of morning light stretched across the Riverton County Courthouse as people filtered in for the day’s hearings. The old marble floors carried every echo. Each step, each whisper, each cough felt amplified. At the petitioner’s table, Tamsin Kerrigan drew a slow breath and straightened her blazer. She looked composed but inside her nerves knotted like wet rope. This was the final hearing after months of bitter unraveling.

Across the aisle, Roderick Vale settled into his seat with the comfort of a man who believed the world bent naturally in his direction. He crossed his legs, leaned back, and let a lazy grin shade his features. “You are not seeing a cent of my money again,” he called out, just loud enough for the first few rows to hear.

Petra Lynell, draped in a fitted dress and too much perfume, touched his arm with engineered tenderness. “He is right, sweetheart. You should have known when to leave gracefully,” she said, smiling in a way that was neither kind nor subtle.

At the far end of their table, Agnes Vale regarded Tamsin with cold delight. “Some women do not deserve the comfort they marry into. She should be grateful we tolerated her as long as we did.”