"Julian! If it weren't for the fact that I'm related to you and therefore unable to stand in court, I would have personally represented Dylan and made sure you lost so badly you'd never recover!"
I paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at me.
"Abigail, I really don't understand. Why do you treat me like an enemy now?"
She narrowed her eyes, leaned closer until her face was just inches from mine, and whispered, "That slap—you think I'll ever forget it? I'll carry it with me for the rest of my life."
Sighing, I nodded. There was nothing left to say.
Online public opinion only grew more frenzied.
Because of the uproar, the case was fast-tracked to trial—less than half a month later, we were in court.
I didn't hire a lawyer. I sat alone at the plaintiff's table.
From the gallery, Abigail raised her brows at me with a smug, mocking look.
When her relatives entered the courtroom, they whispered to her in confusion.
"Why is your husband sitting up there? Shouldn't you be the one leading the case?"