“Take your brat and go to hell,” my husband hissed at my 7-year-old during our 10 AM divorce hearing. “The ruling is finalized. He gets everything,” his lawyer smirked.

She took the pages.

Voss fell silent.

That silence was sweeter than any argument.

Daniel stood again, shaking with rage. “This court cannot admit stolen documents.”

“They were not stolen,” I said. “They were sent to me.”

“By whom?”

I looked past him.

Mara stepped forward.

Daniel’s face twisted. “You stupid little—”

“Enough,” Judge Marlowe thundered.