My mother, Eleanor Whitmore, walked forward calmly, her heels clicking against the floor. She didn’t look at Andrew at first. Her focus was on the judge.
“Your Honor,” she said politely, “apologies for the interruption. Traffic was unavoidable.”
The judge straightened. “Ms. Whitmore,” he said, his tone shifting. “Please, have a seat.”
Andrew’s attorney stiffened. He knew that name. Everyone in this state did. Eleanor Whitmore was a renowned constitutional lawyer, famous for taking apart cases built on arrogance and entitlement.
Andrew turned slowly toward me. “Your… mother?” he asked, his voice unsteady.
“Yes,” I replied quietly.
My mother finally looked at him then, her gaze cool and detached. “Mr. Collins,” she said evenly. “I’ve reviewed your financial actions following the divorce filing. Freezing joint assets, moving funds, attempting to financially corner my daughter—those actions are not just unethical. They’re legally actionable.”
Andrew’s lawyer jumped to his feet. “Your Honor, Ms. Whitmore isn’t listed as counsel—”
“I am now,” my mother said calmly, handing paperwork to the clerk. “Filed earlier today.”
The judge reviewed the documents, nodded once. “Counsel acknowledged.”