I never told my cheating husband that I was nominated to the Supreme Court. He served me divorce papers at dinner, laughing with his mistress. “I’m taking the house and the kids. You’re just a weak paralegal.” He didn’t know his mistress was actually an embezzler on the run. The police stormed the restaurant. She screamed, “Call your lawyer!” My husband looked at me, pleading for help. I stood up, put on my robe from my bag, and smiled. “I don’t defend criminals,” I said. “I sentence them.”

To the world, I was about to become one of the most powerful judges in America.

But to my husband, Ethan, I was still just a forgettable legal assistant who couldn’t even remember the dry cleaning.

My phone vibrated.

Five missed calls.
All from Ethan.

I called him back while flagging a cab.

“Ethan? What’s wrong?”

“Where the hell have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been calling nonstop. You know I hate voicemail.”

“I was… working,” I said.

He assumed “working” meant filing motions at a mid-level firm.

“Whatever. Meet me at Le Bernardin at seven. Sharp. And try to look expensive for once. Wear the pearls. I have company.”

“Company? It’s Tuesday. I’m exhausted.”

“This is important, Amelia. Bigger than anything your little assistant brain can process. Just show up.”

He hung up.

I stared at the phone.

My “little assistant brain” had just discussed constitutional law with the Commander-in-Chief.

I arrived at 6:55.

No pearls.

Just a navy suit—and the tote bag containing a Supreme Court robe resting by my feet.

Le Bernardin felt like a temple of wealth: hushed voices, crystal glasses, truffle-scented air.