All Chapters of Lawfully Wedded Nanny (BWWM): Chapter 111 - Chapter 120

The gavel’s echo hadn’t even faded before the courtroom swelled with noise—heels clicking against linoleum, low voices breaking into the hush, the scrape of benches sliding back. Judge Morales had called for a recess, but the air felt nothing like a break. It was thick, charged, as if every word said inside still lingered, waiting to pounce.Richard forced himself to stand slowly, deliberately, though his heart hadn’t steadied since the moment he’d spoken the words aloud: She is their mother.For years, silence had been his weapon. Controlled silence, polished and unyielding. Now, he could feel his pulse in his throat, raw from the effort of defending her in front of Juliet. His own mother-in-law. His late wife’s shadow in pearls.Across the aisle, Juliet’s gaze speared him, unflinching, but for the first time he saw the tiniest crack—color drained from her cheeks, the sharp pinch of her knuckles around her handkerchief. Harvey leaned in close to her, murmuring something low, but Juli

The courthouse steps spilled into the street like a stage set for judgment. Reporters clustered at the bottom, their cameras forbidden but their pens merciless. Voices rose in a low hum, the same question repeated in different mouths: Will the Pendletons win custody? How much did the new wife know? What about Kyle Benson’s testimony?Richard kept his gaze forward, one hand gripping the railing as though it alone tethered him to the ground. He felt Monet’s presence just behind him, her steps light, careful—as though even the click of her shoes might be misinterpreted.“Mr. Abbott, comment on your wife’s infertility—”He didn’t flinch, didn’t answer. His attorney Kessler swept them past the reporters with curt words and the promise of “no comment.” But the words lingered like grit in Richard’s chest. Infertility. As though that one fact stripped Monet of every tender thing she had given his children.Florence was waiting by the car, her cane planted firm against the pavement. Maxwell st

The judge gave a short recess after Carter’s testimony, but the air in the courtroom remained thick, charged with something no whispered conversation could release. Richard had barely moved. His son’s words still echoed in his ears—She’s still a mom.Monet sat beside him, her fingers clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles gleamed white. He wanted to reach for her hand, but the walls between them—the argument, the jealousy, the silence—still loomed.The bailiff’s voice broke the tension. “Meredith Abbott.”Every head turned.---The EntranceMeredith was only six. The hem of her dress brushed her knees, her braid slightly lopsided from where she’d tugged at it nervously. She clutched a small stuffed bunny—Judge Morales allowed it, nodding once at the clerk.Richard’s chest squeezed painfully. She looked so small against the pale wood of the courtroom.The clerk leaned down. “Do you promise to tell the truth, Meredith?”Her voice was soft, but clear. “I promise.”She hugged the

The courtroom felt different that morning. Not louder, not brighter—simply heavier, as though the very air had grown thick with all the words, accusations, and truths already spoken within these walls.The benches were full. Reporters had somehow wedged themselves in the last row despite the judge’s clear warning against turning the case into a spectacle. Lawyers whispered in low tones, papers rustling like dry leaves. The bailiff stood by the door, his posture rigid, as if guarding against the emotions about to erupt once a verdict was read.Richard sat at the respondent’s table, his jaw a hard line, his hands flat against the wood. He had not slept. Not really. He’d closed his eyes for two hours at most, and in that time, dreams had come—dreams of Carter’s small hand slipping from his grasp, dreams of Hannah’s laughter turning into Juliet’s icy voice, dreams of Monet walking away from him, her face unreadable.He forced the images back now. Today wasn’t about fear. Today was about h

The courtroom had gone too still. Even before Judge Morales spoke, Richard knew. He could feel it in the air, that brittle quiet that comes before the breaking of something you can’t ever piece back together. Florence sat two rows behind him, hands clasped on her lap, her face a portrait of patience. Maxwell’s gaze flickered between the judge and Richard, as if bracing for impact. But Richard wasn’t looking at any of them. He was looking at the seat where Monet had been. Empty. Her purse was gone. Her soft gray dress, the one she’d worn like armor, was nowhere in sight. She’d slipped out, silent as always, leaving only the faint echo of her presence behind. For one disorienting second, he wondered if she’d been there at all. Judge Morales cleared her throat. “This court has reviewed all testimony, evidence, and statements. Custodial petitions are not matters to be taken lightly, and in this case, the emotional stakes are considerable.” The murmurs in the gallery quieted. Juli