Every eye in the room was fixed on the screens in our hands.

The judge took his seat at the bench, his black robes rustling in the quiet room.

Judge Robert Miller adjusted his glasses, looking down at the gallery with a sharp, practiced gaze.

“Please be seated,” the bailiff said, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

I sat down slowly, my knees knocking against the modesty panel of our table.

Nathan sat right beside me, his shoulder brushing mine, solid and warm.

On the table, his phone screen went dark, but the image of that frantic email from his PR director was already burned into my mind.

We had barely made it through the courthouse doors twenty minutes earlier.

The memory of the steps outside was still fresh, making my skin prickle with sweat.

The wind had been whipping down Second Avenue, freezing the rain against my cheeks.

The media had been waiting for us, tipped off by someone.

They had swarmed our SUV before the driver could even open the passenger door.

“Emily, is it true your marriage is a fraud?” a reporter had screamed, thrusting a microphone toward my face.