Vanessa had chosen the look carefully. Soft cream suit. Delicate jewelry. Hair arranged in that expensive, effortless way that required both strategy and maintenance. Her designer handbag sat upright beside her like a companion with rank. She looked like a woman attending a gallery preview rather than a divorce hearing in which half the city expected her to become a new wife by winter. She kept her chin lifted, but there was something restless in the way her fingertips tapped the leather handle of her bag. She had built her confidence on the assumption that the wife would arrive broken, perhaps tearful, perhaps desperate, perhaps dramatic in the predictable way wealthier women often sneered poorer women would be. Vanessa did not fear messy emotion because she believed it always made the emotional person look weak.