Eric and his entourage entered the courtroom. Rebecca followed with her thin folder of evidence, documents gathered through sleepless nights and relentless research. She knew she was outmatched. But she also knew the truth.
The courtroom was small, dark wood, fluorescent lights buzzing. Eric’s team spread laptops and files like an army. Rebecca sat alone at the other table.
The judge entered, a stern woman with reading glasses and steel in her gaze. “Please sit,” Judge Marlow said. She scanned the case file. “Dalton versus Sloan. Dissolution of marriage.” Her eyes moved to Rebecca. “Ms Sloan. Do you have legal representation.”
Rebecca opened her mouth to say no. The courtroom doors opened with a heavy sound. Footsteps approached. A man in a navy suit walked down the aisle carrying a leather briefcase. Gray touched his temples. His presence commanded silence. Rebecca caught her breath.
Harold Sloan walked past Eric without looking at him. Milton Graves went pale. Even the judge looked surprised. Harold reached Rebecca’s table, kissed her forehead, then turned to the bench. “Your Honor. Harold Sloan. Counsel for the defendant.”
Silence fell. Eric’s smile disappeared. Six months earlier Rebecca had believed in perfect Thursdays. Thursdays meant Eric would be in a good mood. She would cook salmon and set candles. That night she did everything right. Eric walked past her, said he was not hungry, and locked himself in the bedroom with his phone.
When she checked the screen, she found messages from a contact named Tiffany Accounts. She photographed everything with shaking hands. When Eric emerged from the shower, she confronted him. “Who is Tiffany.”
He froze. Then deflected. Then admitted the affair.
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