I backed away. ‘Who is it?’
‘You’ll find out,’ he smirked. Then he took out his phone and took a picture: me with a tear-stained face, tangled hair, an expression distorted by despair. ‘Smile for the judge, dear.’
The trial turned out to be a real bloodbath.
Cromwell’s lawyer was theatrical and ruthless. He showed photos of my kitchen when I had the flu, with plates scattered everywhere, claiming that this was my ‘normal.’ He showed bank statements with expenses for jewellery I had never bought, spending on an additional card that he himself had used.
But the final blow was dealt by Dr Valencia.
When the courtroom doors opened and she walked in, I gasped. She was beautiful — elegant, confident, in a cream-coloured jacket.
And she was wearing that scent. The same scent as on Tmain’s shirt.
My husband’s mistress was the supposed ‘independent expert’.
She took the witness stand and spoke in a cold, clinical tone. “Yes, Your Honour. I have observed Mrs Nala in social situations. She shows clear signs of emotional dysregulation. She yells at her child. She is careless. For Zarea’s mental health, I strongly recommend granting sole custody to the father.”
I clutched Abernathy’s arm. ‘It’s her,’ I whispered in panic. ‘She’s the woman he’s sleeping with!’
‘We can’t prove it,’ Abernathy hissed, his eyes wide with shock. ‘Her credentials are real. If you accuse her without proof, you’ll look paranoid. That’s exactly what they want.’
Cromwell then showed the photograph that Tmain had taken that night in the living room.
‘Look at this woman,’ Cromwell thundered. ‘Does she look like a stable mother? Or like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown?’
I glanced at the judge. He was shaking his head as he took notes. He had already made his decision.
It was the last day of the hearing. The atmosphere in the courtroom was stagnant, heavy with the smell of imminent judgement.
Thame and Valencia — who was now sitting among the spectators, laughing — exchanged secret glances. They had won. They had taken my money, my reputation, and now they were taking my daughter away.
The judge cleared his throat. ‘After careful consideration of the overwhelming evidence presented by the plaintiff… the expert testimony regarding the mother’s instability… and financial negligence…’
I closed my eyes. Tears streamed down my face, hot and stinging. I’m sorry, Zaria. I’m so sorry.
‘The court finds that it is in the best interests of the minor…’
‘Stop!’
The voice was sharp but piercing.
The courtroom doors swung open. Zaria stood there, in her school uniform, with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
Tmain jumped to his feet, panic evident on his face. ‘Zaria! What are you doing here? Leave immediately!’
‘Silence in the courtroom!’ roared the judge. ‘Who is this girl?’
Zaria ignored her father. She walked towards the judge’s bench, her shoes clicking on the marble floor. She seemed frightened, but she did not stop until she reached the judge’s table.
‘I am Zaria,’ she said in a trembling voice. ‘And I have something to show you that my mother doesn’t know about.’
Cromwell jumped to his feet. ‘Your Honour, this is highly inappropriate! A minor cannot interrupt the proceedings!’ ‘Dad said Mummy is bad,’ Zaria interrupted, speaking louder than him. ‘And that lady in the cream dress said Mummy is crazy.’
The judge’s eyes narrowed. He looked from the girl to her father, who was beginning to sweat. ‘Silence in the court,’ he ordered. He leaned towards her. ‘What do you want to show me, little one?’
Zaria took a battered and cracked tablet out of her backpack. ‘This,’ she said. ‘I recorded it. Because Dad said it was a secret.’
Tmain lunged forward. ‘She’s just a child! She doesn’t understand what she’s doing! This tablet is broken!’
‘Officer, restrain Mr. Tmain!’ the judge shouted. Two officers grabbed his arms, forcing him back into his seat.
‘Plug him in,’ the judge ordered the clerk.
Silence fell over the courtroom. The large monitors on the walls flashed. The old tablet’s menu appeared on the screen. The video file was highlighted.
Zaria pressed ‘play.’
The video was grainy, shot from a low angle — behind the plant in our living room.
Tvis entered the room. He was not alone. Dr Valencia followed him, not in a suit, but in a silk robe. My silk robe.
A murmur rippled through the room.
In the video, Tmain pulled Valencia towards him for a deep kiss. ‘Are you sure this will work?’ Valencia asked, her voice clear. ‘Your wife might suspect something.’
Tmain laughed — it was a cruel, disgusting sound. ‘Nyla? She’s too stupid to suspect anything. I’ve already transferred the last of the joint funds to your offshore account, darling. We have a million dollars.’
I closed my mouth to stifle a sob. Next to me, Abernathy wrote without looking up.
‘What about custody?’ Valentia asked on the video, running her finger across Tmain’s chest. ‘She’s involved with her.’