Botox Batman attempts a warm chuckle. “A working parent occasionally runs late. That’s not a crime.”
I don’t break eye contact. “Beingthreehours late, multiple times, when the child is under medical restriction for a healing laceration, comes much closer.”
For the briefest second, I catch Colton’s eyes.
He gives me a nod so small I could be imagining it, but it’s enough to fuel me for a week of these meetings. My peripheral vision catches John opening a tab on his Surface.
The mediator interjects. “Ms. Davis, if you have further evidence, now is the time.”
I nudge the folder toward her. “Pages four and five detail missed pediatric appointments, with documentation from both the doctor and daycare. The child’s mother was unreachable during one of these incidents. When my client attempted to remedy the situation, he was threatened. Page five displays text messages that confirm Ms. Kirillov was at the nail salon during those hours.”
Mira opens her mouth as if she wanted to say something again but then closes it. She looks to her lawyer for guidance and offers nothing but a flick of her French-manicured fingers, as if swatting away an insect that forgot its place.
“Are we seriously suggesting that a single missed appointment constitutes endangerment?” Botox Batman’s voice thunders through the room.Ugh. I hate it when grown-ups raise their voice and think it makes them look more professional. It doesn’t. You look like a giant baby, idiot.
“Threemissed appointments.Eight, if you count her dance lessons,” I reply, turning the knife with a smile I’ve practiced in the mirror.
The mediator, who has not blinked since we started, jots down something on her pad. “Let’s get back to the core issue: what custody arrangement is being sought?”
Mira’s voice goes brittle. “Livy needs stability. She’s in a gifted dance program, she has friends where we lives, she’s happy. She needs her mother.”
My turn to resist laughter. “Your Honor—” I start, but the judge lifts a finger, calling on Colton.
He immediately sits up straight. “My daughter is afraid to sleep alone in her mother’s apartment. She is left alone for hours. All I want is to keep her safe.”
Mira snorts. “You mean keep her from me.”
“No,” he says, meeting her eyes. “Keep her alive.”
He turns to opposing counsel. “Mr. Goldblatt. Your response?”
Botox Batman glances at his notes, then speaks in a tone that manages to sound both boring and accusatory. “Mr. Kirillov is a single man whose professional obligations require him to travel for up to half the year. While we do not dispute his love for his daughter, it’s simply not feasible for a man in his position—without a stay-at-home spouse or dedicated nanny—to provide the consistent stability a child of Olivia’s age requires. My client’s lateness is unfortunate but not malicious, and as any working mother can attest, occasional lapses happen. Furthermore, the incident in question—the allegedlaceration—was minor, a scratch even.”
I bristle, but before I can object, the mediator fixes Colton again. “Mr. Kirillov, what is your plan if granted full custody?”
Colton doesn’t hesitate. “I take care of her myself. I have means. I have schedule flexibility off-season. During season, my parents are here. I’ve already arranged this. I make Livy my priority.”
The judge raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the rare treat of a witness who actually answers the damn question. The judge narrows her eyes. “And this arrangement… you’ve considered its sustainability? Your parents won’t be available forever, and you’re at the peak of your career. What happens when those circumstances change?”
“If it comes to it, I’ll walk away from hockey to raise Livy myself,” Colton says, and the weight of it fills the room. I hear Mr. Goldblatt inhale, the faintest whistle through his teeth.
But that bastard is not done. “Your Honor, I have here a copy of Mr. Kirillov’s recently signed contract extension with the New York Falcons.” He holds it up, dramatic as hell. “He is one of the highest-paid players in the league, with significant obligations to sponsors, media appearances, and travel. He cannot simply abandon a multi-million-dollar commitment. Not without consequences to himself, his team, and his daughter’s financial future.”
Colton’s fists clench beneath the table, and for a moment I see the storm he keeps so well controlled. I rest my fingertips on his forearm, just above his watch. A small jolt travels up my arm, like touching a doorknob after crossing carpet in winter. His eyes lock with mine, pupils dilating slightly, and the tightness around his mouth softens by a fraction. I give the smallest nod—once.We got this.
The mediator waves a hand. “I’ll review it.” She turns to Mr. Goldblatt. “Anything else?”
Botox Batman smirks, satisfied. “Yes, Your Honor. In addition to my client’s testimony, we have a character witness present: Olivia’s maternal grandmother, Mrs. Marion Holden. She’s in the gallery today and is prepared to speak to the stability and loving environment at her daughter’s home.”
The mediator nods. “We’ll hear from Mrs. Holden after the break. In the meantime, Ms. Davis, prepare your client for direct examination. And get the child ready if I need to speak with her.”
She raps the gavel, an actual gavel not just a metaphorical one, and the court dissolves into a slurry of shuffling feet and murmured lawyer talk. I gather my folders, nudge Colton toward the door, and catch a glimpse of Mira’s face.
God, shehatesme. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she wants to kill me.
Outside, in the cold hallway, Colton exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years. “They want to make me look like a bad father,” he says. “Like I don’t care.”
I look up at him. “You did great in there. We just need to get through this next round, then let the evidence speak for itself.”
