The bailiff's voice cut through the room, and everyone stood. Miller rose with them, grateful for the interruption, for something to do besides drown in her own thoughts.
Judge Dorothea Whitcombe entered through the side door—the same judge who'd presided over the preliminary hearing back in April, sharp-eyed and efficient, with no patience fortheatrics. She took her seat at the bench and surveyed the courtroom with the brisk assessment of someone who'd seen every variation of human misery and intended to sort through this one as quickly as possible.
“Be seated.” She shuffled papers, made a note, and looked up. “We're here on the matter of Shepry versus Shepry-Dane, case number 24-CV-0847. Counsel, state your appearances.”
Gerald rose first. “Gerald Bracks of Bracks and Calloway, appearing on behalf of the petitioner, Astoria Shepry.”
Rachel stood. “Rachel Hartwell of Hartwell and Associates, appearing on behalf of the respondent, Valerie Shepry-Dane.”
Judge Whitcombe nodded, making notes. "I've reviewed the pre-trial submissions from both parties. We'll proceed with opening statements, beginning with the petitioner. Mr. Bracks."
Gerald moved to the podium, notes in hand. Miller watched him begin his argument, laying out the case that Astoria had built Shepry Global before the marriage, that Valerie's contributions were social rather than substantive, that the financial claims didn't withstand scrutiny.
But Miller’s attention kept drifting across the aisle to the straight line of Astoria’s spine, to the way her hands rested on the table in front of her perfectly still. She was only sitting ten feet from the woman she loved, watching strangers argue over the wreckage of Astoria’s marriage while the wreckage of their own relationship sat unspoken between them.
Miller forced her attention back to Gerald’s argument. Today wasn’t about her. Today was about telling the truth and making sure Valerie’s lies didn’t win. It was all she could give to Astoria now.
The morning ground forward.
Gerald’s opening statement gave way to Rachel's, and Rachel's gave way to the first round of evidence presentation. Documents were entered into the record and exhibits weremarked and referenced, the dry machinery of divorce law clicking through its paces. Miller took notes she didn't need, her pen moving across the legal pad in patterns that probably weren't even words.
Valerie's composure began to fray around the edges as the hours passed.
Miller watched it happen in increments: the tightening of Valerie's jaw when Gerald presented financial records that contradicted her claims, the sharp whisper to Rachel when an exhibit didn't land the way she'd expected, the way her pleasant mask slipped for just a moment when Judge Whitcombe sustained an objection in Astoria's favor. By mid-morning, Valerie's performance of the wronged wife had developed visible cracks.
Good, Miller thought, and then felt the complicated weight of that reaction. She'd spent months working for this woman and advocating for her. Now she was sitting in a courtroom hoping Valerie would lose.
The morning recess came and went. Miller stayed in her seat, avoiding the hallway where she might run into Rachel or, worse, Valerie. She checked her phone, scrolled through emails she didn't read, and counted the minutes until court resumed.
When everyone filed back in, Gerald remained standing. “Your Honor, the petitioner calls Miller Scott to the stand.”
Miller set down her pen and pad.
She’d had two weeks to prepare for this moment, but preparation didn't make it easier. She rose from her seat in the gallery, aware of every eye in the courtroom tracking her movement. Rachel's expression remained neutral. Valerie's face went white, then red, her composure shattering for a moment before she pulled it back together.
And Astoria?—
Miller didn’t let herself look at Astoria. She couldn’t afford the distraction.
She walked to the witness stand, her heels loud on the wooden floor in the sudden quiet. The bailiff met her with a Bible.
“Raise your right hand,” she said. “Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”
“I do.”
“Be seated.”
Miller sat. The witness chair was harder than it looked, and the vantage point was strange. She could see the whole courtroom from here, both tables, the gallery, the judge's bench. She folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Gerald approached the podium. “Ms. Scott, would you state your occupation for the record?”
“I’m an attorney at Hartwell and Associates, specializing in family law.”
“And what was your role in this case initially?”
“I was the second chair, assisting Rachel Hartwell in representing Valerie Shepry-Dane.”
“But you’re no longer involved in the case. Is that correct?”
