It was not the nervous kind of laugh people give when they have misread a room. It was full-bodied, amused, arrogant. It bounced off the marble walls of the Fulton County courthouse and made several heads in the gallery turn toward him. Julian had always loved an audience. He loved one even more when he believed he had already won.
He stood at the petitioner’s table in a navy suit so precisely tailored it looked poured onto his body, one hand resting on a stack of exhibits, the other buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket as if he were already taking his victory lap. He looked directly at Judge Rosalyn Mercer, smiled with all the confidence of a man who had spent his life being rewarded for overreaching, and demanded more than half of my fortune.
Not half of what we had built together.
Not half of any ordinary marital estate.
He wanted half of my company, which the press had just valued at twelve million dollars, and half of the trust fund my late father had left me—the one asset in my life that had never belonged to anyone else, the one thing no one in my family had ever managed to touch.
Behind him, in the front row of the gallery, sat my mother and my younger sister.