By Emily Collins • February 2, 2026 • Share
The corridor outside Courtroom 4C smelled of floor polish, burnt coffee, and fear that settled into the lungs. Rebecca Sloan stood near a water fountain with her hands clasped in front of her navy dress. She stared at a faint stain on the tile and counted seconds to avoid looking up.
Laughter echoed from the opposite side of the corridor. It belonged to Eric Dalton, her husband of ten years, a sound that once made her feel safe and now made her stomach twist.
“I told you this will be finished before lunch,” Eric said. “She does not even have a lawyer.”
His attorney, Milton Graves, chuckled softly. Milton had silver hair, a sharp jaw, and shoes that cost more than Rebecca’s monthly salary as a school counselor.
“That makes things simple,” Milton replied. “Self represented parties rarely understand procedure.”
Eric repeated the phrase with amusement. “Self represented. That is what they call it when you cannot afford help.”
Another laugh joined them. A woman’s laugh. Bright and practiced. Tiffany Ross.
Rebecca finally looked up. Tiffany wore a cream dress too glamorous for a weekday courthouse. Her makeup was flawless. She clung to Eric’s arm as though branding him.
Eric stood in the center of his legal team, confident, smug, wearing the charcoal suit Rebecca had once bought him for their anniversary. He saw her and smiled. Not kindly. Like someone who believed victory was guaranteed.
“Rebecca,” he greeted. “Are you ready for this.”
Rebecca said nothing. Her best friend Dana stood beside her squeezing her hand hard enough to hurt. A bailiff called, “Mr Dalton. Court is ready.”
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