My husband sat in court beside the “Bu.tcher of Broadway,” mocking me like I’d already lost—after freezing my accounts and cutting me off. The judge was seconds from ruling in his favor… Then the doors burst open. A woman in a white suit walked in—and the moment his lawyer saw her, everything fell apart.

Garrison rose too fast, his chair legs scraping loud on the wood.

“Your Honor, this is irregular—”

“So is threatening a bride’s grandmother into signing a prenup,” Catherine said. “But we adapt.”

The room changed again at that sentence.

Keith went still.

My stomach dropped in the strangest, most familiar way—not because the fact shocked me, but because hearing it spoken plainly in court light made the memory feel less like a nightmare and more like evidence.

The night before the wedding, my phone had buzzed with a message from Keith while I sat on the edge of the bed in the Four Seasons bridal suite with a facial mask drying on my cheeks and my grandmother’s pearls laid out beside the veil.

If you don’t sign by nine, I’m calling St. Agnes. They can stop pretending they have the funds to keep Margaret in private memory care. Your move.