My husband defended his pregnant mistress in court, so I hired his worst rival.

The charity gala was supposed to be a celebration, but it ended with Vanessa throwing herself backward down the marble staircase.

I never laid a hand on her.

My husband, celebrity attorney Aaron, pulled me into his arms and promised he would expose her lie when she sued me for three million dollars.

I walked into the first hearing expecting Aaron to be waiting at the defense table.

Instead, he pulled out a chair next to Vanessa.

He was representing her.

He looked right through me and told the judge I was a jealous, violent woman who pushed his pregnant client.

I wasn't his wife anymore—I was just the scapegoat in his multi-million dollar scheme.

When he demanded I surrender my inheritance to settle, I didn't cry.

I walked out and hired his most ruthless rival to tear his empire apart.

***

"Trust me, Hannah," Aaron said. His fingers wrapped around mine, squeezing tight enough to bruise. "Vanessa’s claim is pure fiction. I built my career tearing opportunists like her apart. Today, I bury her."

I looked down at his signet ring, the heavy gold cold against my knuckles.

"She’s demanding three million dollars, Aaron," I said. "She’s claiming I pushed her down a flight of stairs at the charity gala."

"And she has zero witnesses," he countered smoothly, fixing the knot of his navy silk tie. "I personally reviewed the security footage. The camera angle is useless. She has nothing except bruised pride and an ambitious ambulance chaser."

"You swore you hadn't spoken to her since the gala."

"I haven’t. Why would I?" Aaron pressed a kiss to my temple, his breath smelling faintly of peppermint and black coffee. "You’re my wife. Everything we own is on the line. Now straighten up, walk through those doors, and let the lawyers do their jobs."

The bailiff opened the double oak doors to Courtroom 302.

I stepped across the threshold, expecting Aaron to guide me toward the defense table where Mr. Douglas, the bland family attorney Aaron had retained for me yesterday, sat tapping a pencil against a yellow legal pad.

Aaron didn't take my arm.

He didn't walk beside me at all.

I tracked him as he continued past the center aisle, moving with easy confidence toward the opposite side of the room. He reached the plaintiff's table, rested one hand against the polished wood, and pulled out a leather chair.

Sitting in the chair beside him was Vanessa Diaz.

She wore ivory wool, a stark contrast to my black suit. When Aaron sat down next to her, she leaned in slightly, whispering behind her manicured hand. Aaron nodded, flipping open a manila folder with his name embossed on the tab.

My feet froze against the carpet.

"Aaron?" My voice didn't carry past the second row of spectators.

Douglas scrambled up from the defense bench, his face sallow and sweating. "Mrs. Ross, please sit down. The judge is entering."

"Why is my husband sitting with the plaintiff?" I demanded, not moving an inch.

"It’s a strategy," Douglas hissed under his breath, tugging frantically at my sleeve. "Aaron told me this morning. Just sit down and let it play out."

"All rise for the Honorable Judge Marcus Reyes," the bailiff intoned.

The courtroom rose in unison. I stood rigid, my eyes locked on Aaron’s back. He didn't turn around. He didn't flinch. When Judge Reyes took his seat and adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, Aaron was the first to rise.

"Aaron Ross, appearing on behalf of the plaintiff, Vanessa Diaz," Aaron announced, his voice ringing crisp and authoritative through the chamber.

Judge Reyes frowned, glancing down at his docket. "Mr. Ross, you’re married to the defendant. Have you addressed the conflict of interest?"

"I have, Your Honor," Aaron replied without missing a beat. "In fact, my appearance today is the only method to mitigate a public catastrophe for both parties. After an internal review of the evidence, my firm has uncovered material that renders my wife’s defense... untenable."

A collective murmur rippled across the gallery.

"What the hell is he talking about?" I whispered to Douglas. "Get up there and object!"

Douglas stared at his fingernails. "Aaron retained me, Hannah. If he says the defense is untenable—"

"He's representing my accuser!"

"Mrs. Ross," Judge Reyes barked, gavel tapping the block once. "Quiet at the defense table. Mr. Ross, explain yourself."

"Your Honor, we are submitting Exhibit A," Aaron said, lifting a thick sheaf of bound papers. "These are certified records from our private marriage counseling sessions over the past fourteen months."

Ice washed through my veins.

"Those are confidential," I muttered. My nails dug into the palm of my hand until the skin broke.

"The records establish a documented pattern of unchecked paranoia, severe jealousy, and escalating violent ideation toward Ms. Diaz," Aaron stated plainly, casting half a glance toward the press row. "My wife’s hostility toward my professional associate was not accidental. It was premeditated. While it pains me as her husband to admit this in open court, justice requires transparency. I cannot permit my firm to endorse a fraudulent denial."

"Your Honor," Douglas squeaked, finally standing, "we... we were not provided advance copies of—"

"Sit down, Douglas," I commanded.

Douglas blinked at me, startled. "Mrs. Ross, please, you need to remain calm—"

"I said sit down."

I pushed my chair back, the legs scraping hard against the linoleum. The sound cut Aaron off mid-sentence. Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to me.

"Mrs. Ross," Judge Reyes warned, his gavel hovering. "Control yourself."

"Your Honor," I spoke, projecting from my diaphragm the way I had learned running city council meetings. "I am firing my attorney effective right now. Mr. Douglas is relieved of his duties."

Douglas looked like he might faint from sheer relief. He dropped into his chair without a word of protest.

"Firing counsel does not automatically stay a multi-million-dollar tort action," Judge Reyes said, his brow creasing.

"I’m not asking to represent myself," I said, stepping around the table. "I’m requesting a four-hour continuance to secure independent counsel. And I am formally requesting that the court recognize Aaron Ross as a material witness with interests adverse to mine, not merely as plaintiff's counsel."

Aaron finally turned to look at me. His expression was smooth, almost pitying. "Hannah, stop making a scene. You’re only validating the psychological evaluation."

"Did you tell the judge what you said in those sessions, Aaron?" I asked, keeping my tone dead flat. "Or did you just black out every page where the therapist noted your pathological lying?"

"Your Honor!" Aaron called out, spreading his hands in an appeal to reason. "You see the hostility. This is precisely why we requested an expedited judgment on liability."

"Recess," Judge Reyes barked, smashing the gavel down twice. "Ten minutes. Counsel, in my chambers. Mrs. Ross, find an attorney or prepare to defend yourself at eleven o'clock."

The judge vanished behind the curtain. The bailiff stepped toward me, but Aaron was faster. He caught my elbow the second the judge was out of sight, dragging me toward the side railing.

"Are you insane?" Aaron hissed, his veneer cracking just enough to show his bared teeth. "Do you have any idea how close you are to an assault charge? If Vanessa files a criminal complaint, you’re looking at a state penitentiary."

"Get your hands off me."

He didn't let go; he tightened his grip. "Listen to me, you stubborn idiot. I’m doing this to protect you from prison. If I control Vanessa’s lawsuit, we dictate the damages. We settle for a number covered by the umbrella policy, she signs a non-disclosure agreement, and the DA drops the criminal inquiry. It’s an engineered exit!"

"You're standing next to the woman you’re sleeping with," I said, looking down at his polished oxford shoes, "and telling the press I'm mentally unhinged."

"It's optics, Hannah! Nobody cares about the truth! They care about the narrative!"

I ripped my arm out of his grasp so violently his cufflink tore against my sleeve.

Instead of backing away, I stepped directly over the wooden bar separating the gallery from the well of the court. I stood inches from him, close enough to see the sweat glistening at the edge of his immaculate hairline.

"Here’s your narrative," I whispered, the words dropping like lead weights between us. "You don't get an umbrella settlement. You don't get an NDA. And you sure as hell don't get to manage me."

Vanessa watched from the bench, her lip curling into a small, triumphant smirk.

I didn't give her the satisfaction of a glare. I kept my gaze locked on my husband.

"If you want to play lawyer, Aaron," I told him, "prepare to lose everything."

I turned on my heel and pushed through the heavy swing doors.

The courtroom corridor was cooler, bathed in the white glare of recessed fluorescent lights. My pulse hammered in my throat, but my hands remained entirely steady.

As I walked toward the elevators, I caught the scent of clove tobacco and expensive wool.

Leaning shoulder-first against the marble wall, arms crossed over a tailored charcoal vest, was a man who hadn't made a sound.

Gabriel Shaw.

The most ruthless corporate litigator in the tri-state area, the man Aaron spent three years trying and failing to defeat in arbitration, was staring straight at me. A slow, razor-thin smile touched the corner of his mouth.

"Quite a performance, Mrs. Ross," Gabriel said quietly, pushing off the wall. "Too bad your husband brought a knife to an execution."