She raised her head and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was pale beneath her makeup,dark circles visible now that the concealer had worn thin. She looked exhausted.
Miller Scott had just defended her.
No, not defended her. That wasn’t quite right. Miller had defended the truth. She’d looked at the evidence and stated what it showed, even when her own client was pushing her to see something that wasn’t there.
Astoria gripped the sink hard, the porcelain cold and unyielding beneath her fingers.
For months, she watched everyone fall for Valerie’s performance. The press, the public, even people who’d known Astoria for years, they all looked at Valerie and saw the victimized, wounded wife who was brave enough to escape her controlling spouse. Astoria had stopped expecting anyone to question the narrative. She'd stopped hoping that someone might look at the evidence and see the truth.
And now Miller Scott, of all people, had refused to present lies. She’d contradicted Valerie directly, and Astoria knew exactly what that’d cost her. Valerie didn’t forget when people told her no. She didn’t forgive when someone failed to fall in line. Miller just made herself a target, and she probably didn’t even realize it. She didn’t yet understand the quiet, patient cruelty Valerie was capable of, the way she could make someone’s life miserable without ever raising her voice or leaving a mark.
Astoria should feel vindicated or literally anything other than this hollow ache in her chest, but she felt the wall she’d built so carefully over the past six months crack as a fissure formed. For the first time since she’d filed for divorce, someone had chosen to see the truth over what was convenient or what Valerie was claiming.
It wasn’t much. It was nothing, really, just one attorney refusing to discredit her reputation. After all, Miller worked forValerie and still believed whatever story Valerie had told her about their marriage. She was still, technically, the enemy.
But she was, at least, an enemy with integrity, and Astoria had forgotten what that looked like from other people.
She adjusted her blazer and looked at her reflection one more time, checking to make sure nothing showed on her face. When she was satisfied, she washed her hands then walked out of the bathroom. Recess would be ending soon, and she still had closing arguments to sit through.
Astoria slipped back into the courtroom with two minutes to spare. Gerald glanced up as she took her seat, a question in his eyes, but she shook her head slightly and he let it go. The bailiff was already calling the room to order, Judge Whitcombe returning to the bench.
“We’ll proceed with closing arguments,” the judge announced. “Ms. Hartwell, you may begin.”
Rachel rose from the respondent’s table, and Astoria watched her with renewed attention. She half-expected to hear something about offshore accounts or hidden assets or any of the other number of claims Valerie had been pushing in the hallway. Her shoulders were tight with anticipation.
But it never came.
Rachel’s arguments were thorough, professional, and grounded entirely in the evidence that actually existed. She pushed hard on the document production disputes and made compelling points about the deposition timeline, but she didn’t mention any offshore accounts. She didn’t plant seeds of doubt about Astoria’s financial transparency or do any of the things Valeria had demanded.
Because Miller had stopped her.
Astoria’s gaze drifted to the associate sitting beside Rachel. Miller was taking notes again, her pen moving that fluid, rhythmic way Astoria had noticed before. She looked the sameas she had that morning, and nothing about her physical appearance suggested that she’d stood in a courthouse hallway twenty minutes ago and refused to help her client lie.
But Astoria knew, and she couldn’t stop watching.
Gerald rose to deliver their response, and Astoria handed him the relevant materials without conscious thought. Her mind was elsewhere, turning over what she’d witnessed and trying to make sense of it.
The hearing wound down. Judge Whitcombe issued rulings on the remaining motions, set dates for the next proceedings, and adjourned court for the day. Around Astoria, people began to move and filter toward the exits. She stood slowly, tucking her notebook into her bag, buying herself precious moments to compose her expression into something more neutral. Gerald was beside her, already talking about next steps, but his voice sounded distant.
“—review the rulings tonight and send you a summary. We should discuss strategy for the depositions before?—”
“Tomorrow,” Astoria said. “I’ll call you in the morning.”
Gerald paused, studying her face. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, just tired.” She managed something that could have passed for a smile. “It’s been a long day.”
He didn’t look convinced. “Get some rest. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Astoria moved toward the aisle, joining the slow stream of people emptying the courtroom. She kept her gaze forward and her posture straight.
In the hallway, the afternoon’s crowd had thinned. Astoria was heading toward the elevators when she saw Miller emerging from the courtroom a few paces behind her. Their eyes met briefly, and Miller gave a small, professional nod. Astoria returned it and kept walking.
It was the same as it’d always been: routine, meaningless nods exchanged. But Astoria found herself thinking about it anyway as she pushed through the doors and stepped out into the late afternoon sun.
The drive home took almost forty minutes, and Astoria spent every one of them replaying the conversation she’d overheard. The words kept circling back, persistent as an earworm song she couldn’t get out of her head. She’d heard plenty of people defend her over the past six months—Gerald, her PR team, the handful of friends who’d stuck around despite the scandal—but they were paid to defend her, or they’d known her long enough to trust her version of events. Their loyalty was expected, earned, or transactional.
Miller Scott owed her nothing.
