Judge Marlowe opened the folder.
The first page was stark—black and white. Cold. Simple. Fatal.
Bank transfers. Clinic invoices. Property acquisitions. A trust account under Noah’s initials, drained three days after Daniel filed for divorce.
The judge’s expression shifted slowly. Not shock—recognition.
The room seemed to shrink.
Voss cleared his throat. “Your Honor, we have not had time to review—”
“You had nine months,” I said. “You reviewed the fabricated version.”
Daniel stood. “This is harassment. She’s unstable. She’s been obsessed with punishing me since I moved on.”
“Moved on?” I echoed.
I turned just enough for Elise to hear me.
“Is that what you called it when you transferred two hundred thousand dollars from the children’s literacy foundation into Daniel’s Cayman account?”
Elise’s face went pale beneath her makeup.
Daniel pointed at me. “She forged those records.”
I almost smiled.
“That would be difficult,” I said, “since your own assistant delivered the originals to the court clerk at 8:42 this morning.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
There it was—the first crack.
