The following morning, Victor arrived at family court wearing a navy suit and carrying rage he could barely contain.

He expected tears.

Instead, he found Mara—my attorney—waiting with a binder thick enough to break someone’s foot.

Lila sat behind him in oversized sunglasses pretending not to panic. Victor’s brother attended too, still wearing the same smug grin from the anniversary dinner.

By lunchtime, the grin had vanished.

Mara presented everything with surgical precision: the premarital deed, the signed acknowledgment, hidden bank transfers, secret accounts, messages between Victor and Lila discussing how to pressure me out of the apartment, and company emails proving Victor used business funds for personal travel.

Victor interrupted constantly.

“That’s out of context.”

“That account was temporary.”

“She manipulated me.”

The judge grew less patient with every sentence.

Then Mara played the recording.

Victor’s voice echoed through the courtroom.

“I’ll scare her out. She’s soft.”

No one looked at me with pity anymore.

They looked at him with disgust.

Lila slowly removed her sunglasses.

The judge ordered temporary control of the apartment to remain with me, froze the disputed accounts, and warned Victor not to transfer, hide, sell, or remove any marital assets. His attorney immediately requested a recess. Victor’s face had turned gray.

Outside the courtroom, he grabbed my arm.

“Elise,” he hissed, “you’re ruining me.”

I lowered my eyes to his hand until he let go.

“No,” I said calmly. “You started the fire. I only opened the windows.”

Near the elevators, Lila turned on him angrily. “You told me the apartment belonged to you.”

Victor snapped, “Shut up.”

That was the last romantic sentence I ever heard between them.