The courtroom felt like ice despite the summer heat outside.

The courtroom felt like ice despite the summer heat outside.

Naomi Price sat perfectly still in an emerald green dress, her hands folded in her lap, her spine straight, her expression calm enough to fool everyone except the woman sitting beside her.

Patricia Hughes, Naomi’s attorney, noticed the tiny pulse beating at the base of Naomi’s throat.

“Nerves are normal,” Patricia murmured.

Naomi didn’t look at her. “I’m not nervous.”

Across the aisle, Julian Price entered the courtroom as if it belonged to him.

He had always walked that way.

Like buildings rose because he commanded them to. Like men in suits lowered their voices when he passed because power itself had learned to respect him. At forty-eight, Julian was one of New York’s most feared real estate moguls, a billionaire whose name had been carved into glass towers, luxury hotels, and private clubs from Manhattan to Miami.

And for twelve years, Naomi had been his wife.

Not his equal,

according to him.

Not his partner, according to the paperwork his lawyers filed.

Just his wife

Julian stopped three feet from where Naomi sat. His designer suit probably cost more than most people’s monthly rent. Behind him stood Vanessa Cole, twenty-eight, blonde, polished, and wearing a red dress so loud it felt like an insult. She had once been Julian’s secretary. Then his mistress. Now, apparently, his victory decoration.

Julian smiled.

It was the cruelest thing Naomi had ever seen.

“Today is my best day,” he said loudly enough for the courtroom to hear. “I’m taking everything from you.”

Six months earlier, those words would have broken her.

Six months earlier, Naomi would have trembled. She would have wondered what she had done wrong. She would have searched his face for the husband she loved and begged that man to return.

But that woman was gone.