My husband sat in court in a three-thousand-dollar suit beside the “Butcher of Broadway,” mocking me like I was already broken because he’d frozen my accounts, cut off my cards, and left me alone long enough to lose by default… but just as the judge exhaled, lifted the gavel, and looked ready to hand him everything, the courtroom doors flew open

Hudson Reeves was already laughing when the bailiff called the room to order, wearing the kind of polished and private expression that men use when they believe the war is finished and only the paperwork remains. He sat at the plaintiff’s table in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my first year of rent in a city apartment, while a gold watch flashed under the lights every time he moved his wrist.

Beside him, his lawyer, Wesley Higgins, sat with the cautious confidence of a predator as he leaned back in his chair and smiled at something Hudson had just whispered. Wesley was the kind of man that divorce attorneys in Philadelphia spoke about with the same respect people reserve for sharks, and his hair was the exact shade of expensive age.

Their side of the courtroom looked composed enough to be photographed for a brochure about winning, while my side of the room looked like a complete omission. I sat alone at the defense table in a gray dress I had worn so many times that the lining had gone softer than paper, feeling the weight of the empty chair beside me.