Across from you, Ricardo’s attorney rises with the polished confidence of a man who has won too many cases by mistaking wealth for inevitability. Preston Vane is the sort of lawyer who makes even apology sound condescending. Navy suit, silver tie, a face so carefully neutral it becomes a kind of sneer.
“Your Honor,” he begins, “this case remains straightforward. A binding prenuptial agreement exists. My client has fully complied with all financial disclosures required by the court. We are asking for enforcement of the agreement, primary physical custody of the minors, and exclusive residence rights in the marital home. Mrs. Hale lacks the income stability, housing consistency, and institutional support necessary for the children’s long-term welfare.”
Each sentence lands exactly where it was designed to.
You can feel the room measuring you against his words. Your simple dark dress. The boys’ neatly pressed shirts that were ironed at dawn in a rented townhouse kitchen. The absence of visible legal theatrics on your side. No team of assistants. No whispering associates. No tower of glossy binders.
Just a worn leather bag.
