“You’re right on time.” Rachel gestured to the chair beside her. “We were just reviewing the morning’s agenda.”
Valerie settled into her seat, crossing her legs at the ankle, and directed her attention to Miller. “How are we looking?”
“Solid.” Miller pulled the relevant folder toward them. “Today is mostly procedural: temporary orders, discoverydisputes, scheduling, that sort of thing. The judge will rule on the document production timeline and set dates for depositions.”
“And Astoria?” Valerie's voice carried a slight edge beneath the composure. “Will she be here?”
“We expect so.”
“Something flickered across Valerie’s face—too quick to read and gone before Miller could name it. “Good. I want her to see this. All of it. I want her to understand she can’t just throw money at this and make it disappear.”
Rachel’s expression remained professionally neutral. “Our focus today is on positioning. We're making arguments and establishing groundwork. The real battle comes later in depositions and the trial.”
“I know.” Valerie smoothed an invisible wrinkle from her shirt. “But I also know how she operates. She thinks she can intimidate people into backing down. I want her to see that I’m not backing down.”
Miller watched Valerie’s perfectly manicured hands, steady with no tremor of nervousness. Whatever anxiety she might be feeling about facing her ex-wife in court, she’d buried under layers of composure.
“We should head to the courtroom,” Rachel said, gathering her files. “Jude Whitcombe is a stickler for promptness.”
They filed out of the conference room and into the corridor. Miller fell into step behind Rachel and Valerie, carrying the backup files, already running through the morning’s arguments in her mind.
Judge Whitcombe’s courtroom was smaller than Miller had expected. It was wood-paneled and functional with none of the grandeur of the superior court chambers downtown. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting an institutional pall over everything.
Miller took her seat at the respondent’s table, arranging the files within easy reach. Rachel sat beside her, and Valerie took the chair closest to the aisle, her posture impeccable.
The petitioner’s table sat empty.
Miller busied herself with organizing documents she’d already organized twice, hyperaware of the courtroom door in her peripheral vision. People filtered in and out—a clerk conferring with the bailiff, someone from another case collecting forgotten papers—but no sign of Gerald Bracks or his client.
Then the door opened again, and Miller’s hands went still.
Astoria entered first, Gerald a half-step behind her with a junior associate trailing them both. She wore a charcoal suit—beautifully cut, the kind of tailoring that whispered money rather than shouting it—and carried a leather briefcase. Her hair was pulled back in a sleek twist, exposing the line of her jaw and the pale column of her neck.
Miller had seen her twice before, but something was different this time. It took her a moment to identify it. Astoria moved with the same control and settled into her chair at the petitioner's table with measured grace. Her expression revealed nothing, the ice queen facade firmly in place. And yet…
There were dark circles beneath her eyes, faint and nearly hidden under makeup, but visible now that Miller was close enough to really look. Astoria’s shoulders were bunched up from tension and her jaw was tight, the muscles flexing almost imperceptibly. She looked like she was someone running on caffeine and willpower.
Miller looked away, fixing her gaze on the legal pad in front of her. She wrote the date at the top of the page, then the case number.
“All rise.” The bailiff’s voice cut through the room’s quiet murmur. “The Honorable Judge Dorothea Whitcombe presiding.”
Everyone stood. Judge Whitcombe entered through the side door, a compact woman in her sixties with silvery-blonde hair and sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. She took her seat at the bench, surveyed the room with the brisk efficiency of someone who had no patience for wasted time, and nodded.
“Be seated. We’re here on the matter between Astoria Shepry and Valerie Shepry-Dane.” She glanced at the papers before her. “Counsel, please state your appearances for the record.”
Gerald rose first, as petitioner’s counsel. "Gerald Bracks of Bracks and Calloway, appearing on behalf of the petitioner, Astoria Shepry. With me is associate Joan Perkins."
Rachel stood smoothly. "Rachel Hartwell of Hartwell and Associates, appearing on behalf of the respondent, Valerie Shepry-Dane. With me is my associate, Miller Scott."
Judge Whitcombe made a note. "I've reviewed the motions before me. Let's start with the discovery disputes. Ms. Hartwell, you filed the motion for expedited document production. Make your argument."
Rachel remained standing, and Miller slid the relevant folder toward her without being asked. They'd rehearsed this dance hundreds of times: Rachel leading and Miller supporting, documents appearing at precisely the right moment.
“Your Honor, my client has requested financial records dating back to the beginning of the marriage. The petitioner has produced only partial records, claiming the remainder are proprietary business documents unrelated to the marital estate..."
Miller took notes as Rachel spoke, capturing key phrases and tracking the judge's reactions. This was the work of building a case, one astute observation at a time. And she was damn good at it.
Her gaze drifted to the petitioner's table.
