Almost.
Then Savannah made her second mistake.
She spoke.
“Maybe if Emily cared about the baby, she wouldn’t be so stressed all the time.”
Every head turned.
Marcus closed his eyes for half a second.
Bennett looked like a man watching a priceless vase fall in slow motion.
Judge Whitmore looked at Savannah.
“State your name for the record.”
Savannah’s smile faltered.
“I’m just here to support Marcus.”
“Your name.”
“Savannah Cross.”
“Are you a party to this proceeding, Ms. Cross?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Are you counsel?”
“No.”
“Are you a witness under oath?”
“No.”
“Then you will remain silent unless called.”
Savannah flushed.
Marcus put a hand on her back.
A comforting gesture.
In front of his pregnant wife.
In front of my attorney.
In front of the judge.
In front of God and courtroom audio.
The second mini-payoff was not the rebuke.
It was the transcript.
Every word.
Every gesture.
Every careless little cruelty becoming record.
My father turned back to Bennett.
“Continue.”
Bennett’s voice tightened.
“Your Honor, Mr. Vale’s position is that Mrs. Vale should receive appropriate support while residing temporarily at the Nashville property.”
My Nashville farm.
The one my mother left me.
The one with the white fence Marcus once called “sentimental dead weight.”
Claire’s fingers tapped the folder.
“Mr. Vale has never been to that property for more than forty-eight hours.”
Bennett said, “It is a peaceful environment.”
I finally spoke.
“It’s also in a county where his company has been quietly buying land for a logistics corridor.”
That did it.
Marcus’s head snapped toward me.
Bennett’s hand froze over his notes.
Savannah frowned.
She hadn’t known.
Of course she hadn’t.
Mistresses get jewelry, apartments, and promises.
They don’t always get maps.
Judge Whitmore looked at me.
“Mrs. Vale, explain.”
I rested one hand on the table and stood carefully.
Claire glanced at me, asking without words.
