The tires of our SUV hissed against the wet asphalt as we pulled up to the Daley Center.

Marcus held a black umbrella over my head as we walked up the concrete steps, past the security checkpoints, and into the elevator.

My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my chin up and my shoulders back.

The courtroom was small, sterile, and smelled of lemon polish and damp wool.

Vivian Bradford was already sitting at the petitioner’s table.

She wore a tailored charcoal suit, her silver hair pinned back into a flawless, rigid bun.

Garrett sat next to her, looking pale and hollowed out, his eyes fixed on the mahogany table.

Behind them sat Audrey Kensington, her chin tilted upward, though her fingers nervously toyed with her diamond engagement ring.

I took my seat at the opposing table, with Marcus on my left.

“All rise,” the bailiff called out as Judge Cheryl Vance entered the room.

The judge was a woman in her late fifties with sharp gray eyes and a reputation for tolerating no nonsense.

She adjusted her glasses and looked down at the petitions in front of her.