Stone’s eyes narrowed. “Connections are traceable. Whether Magnus Royale understands the full scope or thinks it’s just a profitable alliance—time will tell.”
By November Lysander filed for divorce exactly as planned. In his paperwork I was painted as a gold digger who’d contributed nothing. He demanded minimal support and no meaningful division.
He handed me the subpoena with a bored, condescending gentleness. “Don’t worry so much. I’m not cruel. I’ll rent you a decent apartment, give you living money. Two thousand a month. That’s enough.”
$2,000.
After the way he spent on Kalista, it was generosity designed to insult.
I did what he expected. I let tears rise. I let my shoulders slump.
“Lysander,” I whispered, “why like this?”
He sighed like I was exhausting him. “Aziza, let’s not do hysterics. We haven’t had anything real for a long time. You know that. You’re a wonderful woman. You’ll find someone more suitable for your level.”
My level.
In my mind I checked another box.
The hearing was set for late November. Stone asked if we wanted to arrest him before.
“No,” I said, smiling like a secret. “I want to see his face when he realizes he lost on all fronts.”
Because I didn’t just want freedom.
I wanted the moment.
The day of court arrived with a sharp wind that chased dead leaves across the courthouse steps. I wore the plainest black dress I owned, loose and modest, the costume of a defeated wife.
Lysander arrived in his Porsche with an army of attorneys. His lead counsel, Chanty Wright, looked like a shark in a designer suit. Lysander patted my shoulder like I was a child.
“Don’t worry, Aziza. This will end quickly and painlessly.”
I lowered my eyes to hide the smile trying to break through.
Kalista arrived ten minutes later, wearing a suit that looked like it cost my entire year. She sat in the front row, adjusting a diamond necklace—$50,000 worth of glittering arrogance—and looked at me with the smug amusement of someone certain she was the upgrade.
Then Octavia swept in wearing Chanel and pearls, expression of a matriarch ready for entertainment. She sat beside Kalista and began whispering immediately, not even pretending to be discreet.
Perl came last, silent, imposing, giving me one glance like I was empty space.
My lawyer, Mr. Abernathy, was an older legal-aid attorney with kind eyes and a worn briefcase. Against the St. James legal team, he looked like a bicycle parked beside sports cars.
That was the point.
No one was supposed to suspect a trap.
Judge Verice King took the bench—a Black woman in her fifties with a sharp gaze behind strict glasses.
“Court is now in session,” she said. “We are hearing the dissolution of marriage between Lysander St. James and Aziza St. James.”
