Back then, I was the brains, and Gavin was the face.

Now, I was just the plaintiff in a bitter divorce.

We walked into Courtroom Six at exactly eight forty-five.

The courtroom was quiet, smelling of wet umbrellas, floor wax, and old paper.

Judge Marian Beckett was already at her bench, reviewing a stack of folders.

She was a small woman with sharp, graying hair and eyes that didn’t miss a single movement in her room.

Gavin was already sitting at the defense table.

He looked immaculate in a charcoal gray suit, his hair perfectly styled, a smug smile playing on his lips.

Beside him sat Philip Dane, his high-priced lead attorney, whispering into Gavin’s ear.

Gavin looked back at me as I took my seat at the plaintiff’s table.

He tapped his luxury watch and mouthed the words, *Nine o’clock.*

I didn’t look away.

I sat down beside Sarah, my back straight, my hands clasped on top of my yellow legal pad.

Sloane Pierce sat in the third row of the gallery.

She looked pale, her eyes rimmed with red, her hands gripping her leather bag like a life preserver.