A court officer approached, his expression firm, his tone precise.

“Ma’am,” he said to Emily, “please step back.”

Emily lifted her chin, affronted.

Linda reached for her arm. “It’s alright,” she said smoothly. “She’s just emotional. Divorce can bring out instability.”

Instability. Linda’s favorite word.

The officer’s gaze swept past them and fell to me, narrowing at the small cut on my lip.

“Assault inside a courthouse is not ‘emotional,’” he said firmly.

Linda’s smile faltered briefly, but she quickly recomposed herself.

Michael finally turned his head slightly, giving the officer a look meant to suggest this shouldn’t escalate.

The officer ignored it and addressed me directly.

“Ma’am,” he asked, lowering his voice, “do you require medical attention?”

I shook my head once.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’m fine.”

Emily let out a scoff, dismissive, calculated: “Of course she’s fine. She always plays the victim.”

I remained silent.

Because responding wasn’t necessary.

What mattered was what came next.

The next room. The next phase. The next revelation.

A bailiff’s voice echoed from the far end of the corridor:

“All rise. Court is now in session.”

People moved automatically, shoes scraping against the marble.