PART 1
The courtroom went silent when Victor Hale laughed at me. Not a nervous laugh. A clean, sharp laugh, polished by twenty years of getting away with things.
My husband leaned back in his chair, expensive suit tight across the stomach he had built on my labor, and said, “Your Honor, let’s be honest. She didn’t build my restaurant. She carried boxes. She was just a pack mule.”
His lawyer smiled.
His new girlfriend, Melissa, sitting behind him in a red dress, covered her mouth like the insult was champagne she couldn’t hold in.
I sat still.
Twenty years of mornings flashed behind my eyes. Me unlocking the back door at four-thirty. Me kneading dough until my wrists burned. Me hauling produce through rain because Victor said delivery fees were for lazy people. Me standing beside the oven while my skin blistered and he shook hands in the dining room, calling himself a self-made man.
