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.

He opened the file in front of him with the care of a man handling radioactive material and peered down first at Garrison, then at me.

“Case number twenty-four, New York zero-zero-nine-one. Simmons versus Simmons. We are here on the plaintiff’s motion regarding division of assets and temporary support pending final judgment.”

His gaze paused on the plaintiff’s table.

“Mr. Ford.”

Garrison rose smoothly. “Good morning, Your Honor.”

The judge nodded once, the kind of acknowledgment a man gives another man whose name he knows but whose company he does not necessarily enjoy.

Then he looked at me.

I stood too quickly and almost knocked the chair behind me.

“Mrs. Simmons,” he said, and there was a note in his voice I couldn’t quite place yet. Not kindness. Not impatience. Caution, maybe. “I see you are unaccompanied. Are you expecting counsel?”

I swallowed.

My throat felt lined with sand.

“Yes, Your Honor. She should be here any minute.”

Keith let out a little noise—something between a laugh and a cough. He covered it with one manicured hand, but the contempt in it echoed anyway.

Judge Henderson’s eyes snapped to him.

“Mr. Simmons, is there something amusing?”

Keith stood half an inch as if to apologize. Garrison put a restraining hand lightly on his forearm before speaking himself.

“My client is simply frustrated, Your Honor. The matter has been prolonged, and emotions are understandably running high.”

“Keep your client’s emotions inaudible, Mr. Ford.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

The judge turned back to me.

“Mrs. Simmons, the court began five minutes ago. If your attorney is not present within a reasonable amount of time, I will have to proceed on the assumption that you are appearing pro se.”

“She’s coming,” I said. “Please. She’s coming.”

Judge Henderson looked at the clock above the clerk’s station and then back at me.

I saw it then in his expression. The thing I had dreaded most.

Pity.

Not much. Just a flicker. A judge’s private, disciplined recognition that a woman sitting alone against Garrison Ford in an asset-heavy divorce might as well already be underwater.

From the plaintiff’s table, Keith leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“She’s stalling,” he said. Not quite to the judge. Not quite not. “She doesn’t have anybody.”

“Mr. Simmons,” Henderson snapped.

But Keith had already warmed to his cruelty.