I was supposed to be the defeated party. I was supposed to be the cautionary tale of a logistics supervisor who worked too many double shifts and noticed too little at home. That was the script they had written for me.
Judge Rowan Castellan leaned forward, his gray eyebrows knitting together in annoyance. He was a man who clearly valued his lunch break more than a last-minute plot twist. “Mr. Chandler,” he intoned, his voice like gravel. “Discovery ended months ago. We are here for final signatures. What could possibly be so urgent?”
“I understand, Your Honor,” I said, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. “But this evidence only came into my possession seventy-two hours ago. I believe the court—and Mrs. Chandler—needs to see it before any binding documents are finalized.”
Lenora’s smirk flickered. For a microsecond, the porcelain mask of the wronged, grieving wife showed a hairline fracture. Pratt tried to wave it away with a dismissive hand. “Your Honor, my client has been patient. Mr. Chandler agreed to these terms in mediation. This is a stall tactic born of cold feet regarding his financial reality.”
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