Serena’s POV
William's attorneys call before nine in the morning, and by noon our kitchen table looks like the command center of a battle we didn't start.
Papers fan across the surface in overlapping stacks. Catherine sits at the far end with her hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hasn't touched, her eyes tracking William as he paces between the counter and the window with his phone pressed to his ear.
I read the filing three times. Each pass makes it worse. Simon isn't just contesting the marriage.
He's claiming Catherine deliberately concealed her prior marital status from William before they married, which — according to the dense, clinical language of the motion — constitutes fraud.
Not a gray area. Not a misunderstanding. The word sits on the page in black ink, ugly and deliberate.
"They're trying to make her the villain," I say to Caleb, who leans against the doorframe with his arms crossed, jaw tight enough to crack teeth.
"The entire motion is structured to shift blame from Simon's abandonment to Catherine's silence."
"I can see that." His voice is flat. Controlled. The kind of controlled that precedes destruction.
William ends his call and drops into the chair beside Catherine.
The exhaustion on his face has carved new lines around his mouth overnight. "Morrison says we have fourteen days to respond. He's pulling in two associates from his litigation team, but he wants us prepared — this isn't a standard marital dispute anymore. The fraud allegation changes the calculus entirely."
"How?" Catherine's voice is barely audible.
"It means Simon's attorneys aren't just trying to dissolve the marriage. They're building a case that could have financial consequences for you personally. If a court finds concealment, they could argue that any assets acquired during the marriage were obtained under false pretenses."
William reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, but her fingers don't close around his. "Morrison says the argument is aggressive but not airtight. We have defenses. But it's going to take time and money we didn't budget for."
"Since when does Simon have attorneys who can build arguments like this?" Caleb pushes off the doorframe.
"He was living in a motel with bourbon and fast-food wrappers two weeks ago. Now he's filing motions with language that reads like it came out of a top-twenty firm."
Nobody answers, because everyone in this room already knows.
I pull out my laptop and text Mia. She arrives within the hour, her messenger bag stuffed with her own laptop, two energy drinks, and the particular brand of focused fury that makes her indispensable in a crisis.
We set up on the living room floor while the adults continue strategizing at the kitchen table.
"The attorney of record on Simon's filing is a guy named David Hargrove," Mia says, scrolling through the state bar directory. "Licensed in 2019. Small practice on paper — solo practitioner, general family law."
"That motion wasn't written by a solo practitioner handling custody disputes," I tell her. "The legal strategy is too coordinated. Too resourced."
"Agreed. So let's find out who's actually behind his desk." Her fingers move across the keyboard. "David Hargrove. Graduated from — oh. There it is."
She turns her screen toward me.
The law school alumni page shows Hargrove at a fundraising dinner three years ago.
Standing beside him, champagne glass in hand, is Richard Bennett. Not across the room. Not in a crowd.
Right next to him, arm over his shoulder, the kind of photo that says mentorship, not acquaintance.
Two girls by the water fountain go silent when they see me, then start talking again the instant I pass, voices low and deliberate enough that I catch fragments — ‘party footage and her own stepbrother and apparently the whole family is —‘
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