CHAPTER 7: COURTROOM BATTLES

The courtroom smelled like lemon polish and desperation. I smoothed my navy skirt—the one I'd bought specifically for this occasion—and tried to ignore the tremor in my hands. Rebecca squeezed my arm as we approached the heavy wooden doors.

"Remember what we discussed," she whispered. "Don't react to their provocations. Stay calm, no matter what they throw at you."

I nodded, the knot in my stomach tightening. My heels clicked against the marble floor as we entered, the sound echoing through the high-ceilinged room. Heads turned. Whispers followed.

And there they were—the Walton army.

Michael sat flanked by three attorneys in suits that probably cost more than my current apartment. His father Nelson perched behind him like a hawk, whispering something in his ear. And Elizabeth... her eyes found mine instantly. Cold. Calculating. The slight curl of her lip told me everything.

I could almost hear her thoughts: *The help has arrived.*

I held her gaze for three full seconds before looking away. Small victories.

"All rise," the bailiff called.

As Judge Winters entered, I stole a glance at Michael. He looked tired. Good. I hoped he hadn't slept in weeks.

"Please be seated," Judge Winters said, adjusting her glasses. "We're here today for Campbell versus Walton. Let's begin."

Rebecca stood, confident and poised. "Your Honor, my client is seeking equitable distribution of marital assets acquired during her five-year marriage to Michael Walton."

The lead Walton attorney—Harrison something—rose with a practiced smile. "Your Honor, while Mrs. Walton's demands might seem reasonable on the surface, we have evidence suggesting this marriage was part of a calculated financial strategy from the beginning."

My breath caught in my throat. Rebecca had warned me they'd go this route, but hearing it still felt like a physical blow.

"Objection!" Rebecca called. "Counsel is making inflammatory statements without evidentiary basis."

"I'll allow it for now," Judge Winters said. "But Mr. Harrison, you'd better have something to back this up."

Harrison nodded, sliding a document toward the judge. "We have records showing Ms. Campbell searched for 'wealthiest bachelors in New Jersey' less than a month before meeting Mr. Walton at a charity event."

My stomach dropped. That was technically true—Samantha and I had joked about it over wine after a brutal breakup with my college boyfriend. We'd googled ridiculous things all night. I never imagined it would come back to haunt me.

Rebecca leaned close. "Remember, stay calm."

The morning crawled by as Harrison painted me as a calculating gold-digger. My browser history. Comments were taken out of context from texts with friends. Even my college thesis on wealth disparity was somehow twisted into evidence of my "obsession with accessing wealth."

By lunch recess, I felt flayed alive.

"They're just getting started," Rebecca warned as we huddled in a corner of the hallway. "This afternoon, they'll bring up the fertility treatments. They'll try to make it seem like you were stalling."

I clutched my water bottle so hard that the plastic crackled. "How did they even get my search history?"

"The Waltons have unlimited resources and very few scruples," Rebecca said grimly. "They've probably had a PI on you since the day you filed."

Movement caught my eye. Michael and his parents were exiting the courtroom, deep in conversation. As they passed, Elizabeth slowed, making a show of adjusting her designer handbag. She stopped just inches from me, her perfume—Chanel No. 5, the same scent she'd once given me for Christmas—invading my space.

"You'll leave with nothing," she whispered, her voice like silk over steel. "That's the price of challenging a Walton."

Before I could respond, she glided away, heels tapping a victory march on the marble floor.

"Did you hear that?" I hissed to Rebecca.

"I did. But it's just intimidation tactics. Focus on the facts."

The afternoon session was worse than I could have imagined. They brought up my first miscarriage—claiming I'd been "careless" with my health. The fertility specialist I'd seen for three years was suddenly suggesting I'd missed appointments. And then came the photos.

"Your Honor, if I may," Harrison said, presenting a new folder. "These photos show Mrs. Walton at several social events during periods when she claimed to be on bed rest."

The judge examined them with raised eyebrows. I felt the blood drain from my face.

"Those were taken on my doctor's advice!" I blurted out. "He said short outings would help with depression."

Rebecca placed a warning hand on my arm. Too late.

"So you admit to attending parties while supposedly recovering from fertility treatments?" Harrison pounced.

"That's not what I—"

"Your Honor," Rebecca interrupted, "these photos are being presented completely without context. My client followed all medical advice during her treatments."

Judge Winters frowned. "I'll review these materials in chambers. Let's move on."

My hands were shaking so badly I had to sit on them. Five years of my life, reduced to this—a character assassination in sterile legalese.

"Mrs. Walton," Harrison continued, "you signed a prenuptial agreement, did you not?"

"Yes, but—"

"And that agreement clearly states that in the event of infidelity, certain financial provisions are voided, correct?"

"My client wasn't the unfaithful party," Rebecca interjected.

Harrison's smile was shark-like. "We have evidence suggesting otherwise."

The room spun around me. What evidence? What lies had they manufactured now?

"Your Honor," Harrison continued, "we have testimony from household staff suggesting Mrs. Walton had an inappropriate relationship with her trainer in 2019."

Marcus. They were talking about Marcus—Michael's right-hand man who'd spotted me crying in the garden after another negative pregnancy test and simply offered a tissue and a kind word. Someone had twisted that moment into something sordid.

"This is absurd," Rebecca argued. "These allegations are completely unfounded and designed solely to trigger the infidelity clause in the prenup."

"Then Mrs. Walton won't mind answering some questions under oath about her relationship with Marcus Daniels?"

My blood roared in my ears. They were going to drag Marcus into this mess—ruin his reputation, maybe even his career—all to avoid giving me what I deserved.

Judge Winters checked her watch. "We'll continue this line of questioning tomorrow. The court is adjourned until two days from now."

As we gathered our papers, I caught Michael watching me, his expression unreadable. For a moment, our eyes locked. Five years of marriage, and I couldn't tell what he was thinking. Had he believed these lies about Marcus? Or worse—had he helped create them?

Outside the courtroom, reporters swarmed like mosquitoes.

"Mrs. Walton! Is it true you had affairs during your marriage?"

"Aria! How does it feel to be exposed as a gold-digger?"

Rebecca hustled me toward the exit. "Don't say a word."

Through the crowd, I spotted Jessica standing near the stairs, watching the circus with a small smile. My sister. My blood. She caught my eye and raised one perfectly manicured hand in a little wave.

In the cab home, I finally broke.

"They're going to take everything, aren't they?" I whispered, tears blurring the city lights outside the window.

Rebecca squeezed my hand. "Not without a fight."

But I could hear the doubt in her voice. The Waltons never lost—that's what she'd warned me from the beginning. They'd throw everything at me—their money, influence, and ruthlessness.

And now I understood just how far they would go.

My phone buzzed with a text. Unknown number.

*I have information that could help your case. Meet tomorrow? —Marcus*

I stared at the screen, hope and suspicion warring inside me. Was this a trap? Another Walton scheme?

Or was it the lifeline I desperately needed?