The courtroom fell silent when Victor Hale laughed at me.

Not a nervous chuckle. Not an awkward reaction. A confident, polished laugh from a man who had spent two decades escaping consequences and believed he would do it again. My husband leaned comfortably in his chair, the expensive suit straining slightly across the stomach he had built while other people did the work. Then he looked at the judge and smiled.

“Your Honor, let’s stop pretending. She didn’t build my restaurant. She moved boxes, cleaned floors, and followed instructions. She was nothing more than a pack mule.”

His attorney smiled. Behind him, his new girlfriend Melissa sat in a bright red dress, covering her mouth as she tried to hide her amusement. I remained perfectly still. Inside my head, twenty years of memories flashed past. Me unlocking the back door before sunrise.

Me mixing dough until my hands cramped. Me carrying heavy produce through storms because Victor refused to pay delivery fees. Me standing beside scorching ovens while my skin blistered. Meanwhile, Victor entertained guests in the dining room, shaking hands and proudly calling himself a self-made businessman. The judge turned toward me.

“Mrs. Hale?”