The marble floor of the courthouse in Silverbrook City reflected the fluorescent lights like a frozen lake. People passed by in suits, heels, and quiet whispers. In courtroom corridor three, a young woman sat with a pen in her hand and a stack of divorce documents on her lap.
Her name was Natalie Foster.
Across from her sat her husband, Brandon Reed, relaxed in his leather jacket, one ankle resting on his knee, confidence dripping from every lazy breath. Next to him lounged a woman with glossy hair and sharp nails, a satisfied smile curving her lips. Everyone knew she was the reason the marriage had collapsed, yet she sat there proudly as if she had earned a trophy.
The clerk called them inside. Chairs scraped. Papers rustled. A judge spoke in a voice tired from years of broken promises and shattered households.
Natalie signed where she was told. Her hand did not shake. The pen moved smoothly across the lines as if she had rehearsed this moment in her mind a thousand times.
Brandon laughed when it was done.
“You signed without a lawyer,” he said loudly. “You really think you can survive without me. You have no defense, no savings, no house, nothing. You will be back begging in a month.”