Her attorney, a man named Henderson, was whispering urgently in her ear, pointing at a stack of documents.

Evan sat beside her, his head in his hands, staring at the polished wood of the table.

I watched the court reporter’s fingers fly over the keys of her machine, recording every word of our ruin.

Lydia’s pen scratched against her legal pad, a sharp, rhythmic sound that kept me grounded.

I looked at the mahogany railing separating the gallery from the counsel tables.

It was the same railing I had stood behind during my grandfather’s probate hearing years ago.

Back then, Evan had held my hand and promised to protect everything my grandfather had built.

Now, he wouldn’t even look me in the eye.

Lydia leaned toward me, her voice barely a whisper.

“The judge is going to look at the prenuptial agreement first,” Lydia said.

“With the fraud we documented from Cole Brantley, she has the grounds to throw it out completely.”

“What about his assets?” I asked.

“If she voids the prenup, we will ask for an immediate freeze and seizure of his accounts to cover the stolen wine,” Lydia said.