The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

Inside, the courthouse smells like damp coats, floor polish, and paperwork that has spent too long in metal cabinets. Your attorney, Michael Grant, waits near the security checkpoint with a leather folder tucked under one arm. He is in his early fifties, silver at the temples, composed in that particular way good attorneys often are, as if they have seen too many human disasters to be impressed by any single one.

His eyes go first to your face, then briefly to your belly, then back again.

“You’re right on time,” he says.

“I usually am.”

One corner of his mouth lifts. “Yes. They usually count on that.”

Damian reaches you just in time to hear the exchange. “Can we keep the theatrics to a minimum?” he says. “We agreed this would be simple.”

Michael turns to him with professional calm. “I’m always delighted when opposing parties use words like simple. It keeps my day interesting.”

Rebecca’s expression hardens. Damian’s jaw tightens. You almost smile.