Chapter 1 - The Counter-Strike
My attorney, David, didn’t object when Blake’s counsel submitted the documents. He simply sat back in his leather chair and gave me a barely perceptible nod.
I didn't hand the sealed envelope to David. I stood up, smoothing the lines of my tailored white suit, and walked directly toward the bench.
"Your Honor," I said, my voice steady, echoing clearly against the mahogany walls of the courtroom. "My husband is entirely correct that I signed those documents three days after my father’s funeral. I was heavily medicated for grief, operating on two hours of sleep, and placing absolute trust in the man I married. But what Mr. Donnelly failed to submit to the court is the corresponding metadata from his own law firm's servers."
Judge Sloan raised an eyebrow, adjusting her reading glasses. "Metadata, Mrs. Donnelly?"
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"The timestamps, Your Honor," I clarified, sliding the envelope across the polished wood of her desk. "Those 'routine tax forms' were not drafted by the IRS. They were drafted by Blake on his personal laptop, six months before my father died. And he didn't do it alone."
Behind me, the absolute silence of the courtroom was broken by the sound of a chair scraping sharply against the floor. Blake had stood up.
