Wright rose. “Your Honor, my client is a respected entrepreneur, owner of St. James Development. Eight years ago, he married for love, but the spouses are simply incompatible. Mrs. St. James has not worked for years and contributed no income. There are no children. My client requests minimal support and no division of property.”
Abernathy tried to object quietly. “Your Honor, Mrs. St. James has a marketing degree—”
Wright waved it away as if swatting a fly. “Which she has not used. She lived fully supported.”
Octavia took the stand next, voice syrup over steel.
“I tried very hard to accept Aziza,” she said, as if she were a saint burdened by charity. “But there were… differences in upbringing. My son offered classes, etiquette coaching, opportunities for self-development, but Aziza preferred to stay home. At business events she was lost. It harmed reputation.”
Each sentence landed like a slap delivered with a smile.
Perl spoke briefly. “My son deserves an equal partner. Aziza… unfortunately did not correspond to the St. James level.”
Kalista didn’t testify, but her presence was its own speech. Crossed legs, chin lifted, diamonds catching light as if applauding.
Finally Lysander took the stand, noble sadness draped over him like an expensive coat.
“Your Honor,” he said, “I loved my wife sincerely, but we became strangers. I don’t blame Aziza. We come from different worlds. I’m willing to provide reasonable support so she can find work and get on her feet.”
Reasonable.
He deserved an award for performance.
Then it was my turn.
I stood slowly, shoulders hunched, voice small. “I… I loved my husband. I tried to be a good wife. If I did something wrong, I’m sorry.”
Lysander looked pleased. Kalista smiled. Octavia wore a mask of pity that felt like mockery.
Even Perl glanced at me, briefly interested, like he was watching a final scene.
Judge King asked, “Does the defense have any other evidence?”
Abernathy stood, holding a plain white envelope with both hands. “Yes, Your Honor. One last piece. A letter from my client.”
Wright frowned. Lysander stiffened. Kalista’s smile thinned.
The envelope moved from Abernathy to the bench.
Judge King opened it unhurriedly and began to read.
Silence thickened in the courtroom. I watched the judge’s expression shift: professional neutrality to interest, then to surprise, then to something like admiration.
She read to the end, removed her glasses, and laughed—full, unstoppable laughter, wiping her eyes.
“This,” she said, still laughing, “is the best thing I’ve read in twenty years on the bench.”
Lysander shot to his feet, losing his polish. “What is it? What did she write?”
Judge King put her glasses back on, cleared her throat, and began to read aloud.
“Letter from Aziza St. James,” she said. “I quote verbatim.”
