They called me delusional. They said I was walking into a slaughterhouse without a weapon.
In the cutthroat world of high-stakes divorce litigation, you simply do not represent yourself against a shark like Jameson Brooks. It is unheard of—especially when he has hired the deadliest lawyer in the city to gut you. Everyone in Department 42 expected a massacre that morning. They expected Kiana Bell to cry, put her name on the agreement with a trembling hand, and disappear back into the poverty she came from.
Jameson certainly did. He even laughed out loud when I stood up.
But my husband forgot one crucial thing: the person who helps build the empire usually knows exactly where the bodies are buried.
What happened over the next three days didn’t just silence his laughter. It stunned the entire legal system and exposed a secret so dark the judge threatened to have everyone in the room arrested. This is the story of the wife who played the fool—only to checkmate the king.
The laughter was not subtle. It was a rich, throaty sound that bounced off the mahogany walls of Superior Court, the kind of laugh that belonged to a man who had never lost a day in his life.
Jameson Brooks leaned back in his Italian leather chair, smoothing the lapel of his $3,000 charcoal suit. He turned to his attorney, Harrison Howard—a man known in legal circles as the Butcher, because he left nothing behind—and whispered loud enough for half the room to hear.
“Look at her, Harrison. She’s wearing that dress I bought her for a charity gala five years ago. It’s pathetic. She thinks she’s in a movie.”
Harrison Howard didn’t laugh. He was a man with silver hair and eyes like chipped flint. He only smirked, tapping his gold fountain pen against the heavy oak table.
“Let her play pretend, Jameson. It makes the kill easier. Judge Coleman hates time-wasters. She’ll be held in contempt before lunch.”
Across the aisle at the plaintiff’s table sat me.
I felt small. The courtroom air conditioning blasted cold air, and I shivered slightly, my skin prickling under the thin fabric of my dress. Unlike the defense table—which was cluttered with paralegals, expensive laptops, and thick stacks of neatly bound exhibits—my table was empty, save for a single yellow legal pad and a plastic cup of lukewarm water.
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