Page 83 of Fake it With Me

“All rise.”

The judge entered, a woman in her sixties with silver hair and sharp eyes that seemed to see everything. Judge Patricia Morrison. Aaron had told me she was fair but no nonsense, with a reputation for cutting through bullshit. I hoped that would work in our favor.

We sat back down, and the clerk called our case. “Matter of Sullivan, custody modification.”

Aaron stood. “Aaron Brennan for the respondent, Darek Sullivan, your honor.”

Sasha’s lawyer stood. “Jeffrey Whitmore for the petitioner, Sasha Gentry.”

Judge Morrison looked down at the case file in front of her. “I’ve reviewed the filings from both parties. Mr. Whitmore, you may proceed with your opening statement.”

Sasha’s lawyer stood and launched into his argument. I had to resist the urge to interrupt every other sentence.

He painted me as a workaholic who prioritized business over fatherhood. Never mind that I had cut my hours in half specifically to spend more time with Daisie. He described Sasha as a devoted mother who’d struggled with postpartum depression, which was news to me. I had never heard her claim that. Apparently, she needed time to heal before she could be the parent Daisie deserved.

“My client has worked incredibly hard to overcome her challenges,” Whitmore said, his voice dripping with sympathy. “She’s sought therapy, established a stable home, and is ready to be an active, present parent. All she’s asking for is joint custody—a chance to be in her daughter’s life.”

He made it sound reasonable. Like Sasha was the victim here, not Daisie.

Then he got to the photo.

“But the most concerning issue, your honor, is this.” He pressed a button on his laptop and the image appeared on the large monitor at the front of the courtroom, blown up so everyone could see every damning detail.

There I was, looking away from Daisie as she leaned over the edge of the dock. The water behind her looked rough, choppy, dangerous. She appeared to be one strong gust of wind away from falling in, and I was paying more attention to the yacht than to my daughter’s safety.

It looked terrible. Even knowing the truth, seeing it displayed like that, I understood why people believed it. It looked exactly like what Sasha’s lawyer was claiming—that I was negligent, distracted, more concerned with my business than my child.

“This photo was taken at the Waverly Yacht Club,” Whitmore continued. “From their security footage. And it shows Mr. Sullivan’s complete disregard for his daughter’s safety. He’s not even watching her as she’s in clear danger of falling into the water.”

I wanted to shout that it was fake. I remembered that day. It had been nice, for one thing. And I had a grip on her life jacket the entire time. But my attorney had his hand on my arm, keeping me in my seat and silently reminding me to wait my turn.

“And worst of all, your honor,” Whitmore said, his voice dropping into a register of profound disappointment. “This incident occurred on little Daisie Sullivan’s birthday. Her father was so focused on work that he endangered his own daughter on her special day.”

The courtroom went silent. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me. The judge’s face was judging me. Her expression made it clear she thought I was a piece of shit. She was doing her best to look impassive, but I saw it.

It was over. I lost. I knew it the moment the judge looked at me as if she needed to verify I was the monster Sasha’s lawyer described.

The court reporter’s fingers paused over the keys to look at me. Even some of the observers in the gallery were shaking their heads.

I looked like the biggest piece of shit.

I did my best to calm my racing heart and mind. It was my biggest fear happening in real time.

Liza’s voice cut through the chaos in my mind. “That picture is a fake!”

29

LIZA

Gasps rippled through the courtroom. I stood there, my heart pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears, unable to believe I had just interrupted a custody hearing by shouting that a piece of evidence was fake.

What had I done?

But I couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. I saw Darek’s shoulders stiffen as that asshole lawyer declared him unfit, and then when that judge looked at him, I saw him cave in. I couldn’t see his face, but I didn’t have to. I felt it in my very bones. It was like we shared the same heart. I felt his pain.

And I knew for an absolute fact that picture was fake. It wasn’t just a feeling. It wasn’t because Darek told me. I knew. And I could not stay quiet.

“Miss, sit down,” the judge ordered.