8
Chapter 8: Astoria
The afternoon session resumed at two o'clock, and Astoria was already losing the battle against her own exhaustion.
She’d managed half a sandwich during the lunch recess, forcing each bite down while Gerald reviewed the afternoon's agenda. The bread had tasted like cardboard and the turkey like nothing at all, and her stomach had clenched around the food like it wasn't sure what to do with it. She'd given up after the fourth bite and pushed the plate away, reaching for water instead.
Now she sat at the petitioner's table, notebook open and pen in hand, watching Judge Whitcombe work through the remaining motions with the same brisk efficiency she'd shown all morning. Gerald was on his feet, responding to a question about the deposition timeline, his voice measured and calm. Astoria should have been tracking every word. Instead, she was tracking the respondent's table.
Miller Scott sat with her pen moving steadily across her legal pad, capturing notes with the focused intensity Astoriahad noticed that morning. She was professional, competent, and unremarkable in every way except that Astoria couldn't seem to stop noticing her.
She looked away, forcing her attention back to the proceedings.
“The court will schedule depositions to begin in two weeks," Judge Whitcombe announced, making a note. "Respondent's deposition first, followed by petitioner's. Counsel will coordinate specific dates and provide the court with a joint scheduling order by the end of business Friday."
Two weeks. Astoria wrote the date on her legal pad in her precise script. Two more weeks of preparation, of reviewing documents, of anticipating every possible question Valerie's team might ask.
She was so tired.
Gerald returned to his seat beside her, leaning close. “That went well. The timeline is reasonable.”
Astoria nodded and kept her eyes on the judge. But her attention drifted again—not to Miller this time, but to Valerie.
Something was different. Astoria couldn't pinpoint it at first, just a low hum of wrongness that made the back of her neck prickle. She'd spent years learning to read Valerie's moods and anticipate the shift from charm to coldness to recognize the warning signs before the storm hit. That instinct didn't disappear just because they were in a courtroom instead of their living room.
Valerie sat at the respondent's table with her hands folded, her expression appropriately somber. The wounded wife performance was flawless; Astoria had seen it dozens of times.
But underneath the performance, something was coiling tighter.
She saw Valerie lean toward Rachel, whispering something. Rachel shook her head slightly, a subtle motion that anyoneelse might have missed. Valerie's jaw tightened by a fraction before her control snapped back into place, her face settling into calculated neutrality.
Astoria knew that jaw clench. She knew the way Valerie's fingers pressed together when she wasn't getting what she wanted, the slight flare of her nostrils when someone dared to disagree with her. She'd learned to read those signs the way sailors learned to read the sky before a storm because her survival depended on it.
Something was brewing. Valerie wanted something, and she wasn’t getting it. That never ended well for anyone in her path.
Astoria stopped writing and watched Valerie whisper to Rachel again, more urgently this time. Miller glanced up from her notes, her brow furrowing slightly, but Valerie’s attention was fixed on Rachel. Whatever it was, Rachel wasn’t giving in.Good for her, Astoria thought, though the sentiment was hollow. Rachel Hartwell might resist Valerie’s pressure in this moment, but eventually everyone bent to Valerie’s will. Everyone believed the performance; everyone saw what Valerie wanted them to see.
That was how it always worked.
The hearing ground on. Judge Whitcombe addressed a dispute about privileged documents, and Gerald rose to make their argument. Astoria handed him the relevant folder without being asked, her movements automatic and her mind elsewhere.
The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a constant drone that seemed to burrow into her skull. The courtroom was too warm, the air thick with recycled breath and tension. She wanted to close her eyes just for a moment, but she’d already slipped once this morning. She’d felt Miller’s gaze on her when she’d let her eyes drift shut during Gerald’s opening argument, and the thought of being seen like that, all vulnerable and faltering, made her skin crawl.
She straightened her spine and forced herself to focus on the judge.
But she could still feel the heat of Valerie’s agitation from across the aisle, a familiar frequency she’d never be able to tune out. Whatever Valerie was pushing for, whatever Rachel kept deflecting, it wasn’t over. Valerie didn’t give up; she just waited for a better moment, a different angle, a crack in someone’s defenses.
Astoria had been on the receiving end of that persistence long enough and knew how relentless it could be.
Judge Whitcombe glanced at the clock on the wall. “We’ll take a fifteen-minute recess before closing arguments on the remaining motions. Court will resume at three forty-five.”
The bailiff called the room to order as the judge rose, and then the courtroom dissolved into its usual recess rhythm.
Gerald turned to her. “Do you need anything? Coffee, water…?”
“I’m going to step out for a few minutes.” Astoria was already gathering her composure and preparing to move. “I need some air. I’ll be back before we resume.”
Gerald studied her for a moment, that same assessing look he’d been giving her for months, but he nodded. “I’ll be here.”
