At our divorce hearing, my husband presented fake psych reports to steal my assets. “You’ll be starving on the street,” he laughed, holding his mistress’s hand. He thought I was just a broken, silent victim. I didn’t argue or cry. I calmly unbuttoned my silk blouse. When they saw what covering my chest and arms, the judge gasped. The entire courtroom went dead silent. “Your Honor,” I whispered, staring dead at my pale husband. “This is no longer a divorce hearing. This is the trial for every dark secret you believed would remain buried forever.” My husband’s smile turned into pure terror.

“I hold here,” Croft continued, turning dramatically on his heel to ensure the legal reporters seated in the gallery got a clear view of the binder, “a comprehensive, independent psychological evaluation from Dr. Aris Thorne, one of the most respected forensic psychiatrists in the state.”

A quiet, expectant murmur rippled through the courtroom. Richard looked down at the table, pinching the bridge of his nose, playing the part of the long-suffering, exhausted husband to absolute, sickening perfection. Chloe placed a comforting, manicured hand over his arm, leaning her head toward his shoulder.