Chapter 8
1207words
Three days after the banquet, I accompanied Mom to meet her lawyer, Graham—a shrewd, capable man with eyes sharp as an eagle's. When Mom arranged all the evidence on his desk—the photos, recordings, and detailed investigator reports—her hands were perfectly steady.
Graham reviewed the materials carefully, the gleam in his eyes intensifying behind his glasses. He looked up at Mom with undisguised admiration. "Mrs. Scott, this is a slam dunk. Your husband has no defense—legally or morally."
"I'm filing for divorce, and I want sixty percent of our marital assets," Mom's voice rang clear and firm, each word precisely chosen. "Plus compensation for emotional distress."
"Perfectly reasonable," Graham nodded, scribbling notes. "We'll make him pay for his betrayal and the emotional damage he's caused. And to cement our advantage in the court of public opinion, I'll strategically leak certain non-private details to my media contacts."
"Do it," Mom replied without hesitation. She turned to me, her eyes blazing with unprecedented determination. "In this war, I don't just want to win—I want to crush them completely. Let the world see what happens to traitors."
The lawsuit documents hit the court system with lightning speed. Meanwhile, the scandal—Damian Scott's affair with his wife's younger sister and the spectacular public exposure at his in-laws' anniversary—spread like wildfire through news outlets and social media. Public opinion crucified Dad and Aunt Rachel with unprecedented ferocity.
Dad's downfall came faster than we'd anticipated. His precious architecture firm—the cornerstone of his identity—began to crumble beneath him. His most important clients struck first, simultaneously canceling all projects with the official explanation that "the partner's serious moral failings reflect poorly on anyone associated with him."
Through Mom's friend, I learned that Dad's company hit a cash flow crisis overnight. He scrambled like an ant on a hot plate, desperately seeking loans, but the same people who once called themselves his "brothers" and "friends" now wouldn't take his calls.
Aunt Rachel fared no better. Her company, eager to distance themselves from the scandal, fired her without ceremony for "personal conduct severely damaging the company's image." Overnight, she lost both her income and her last shred of dignity.
Their "love," under immense pressure, quickly lost its romantic veneer and revealed its ugly truth. Grandma told me their neighbors reported hearing vicious arguments and shattering glass from their rented apartment at all hours.
"This is all your goddamn fault!" Dad's voice would thunder through their thin walls. "If you hadn't been so fucking greedy, if you hadn't insisted on flaunting yourself at that anniversary, none of this would have happened!"
"Are you seriously blaming me now?" Rachel would shriek back, her voice venomous. "Who was it that swore he loved me more than life? Who said he was sick of his boring wife? Now that your precious company's tanking, you want to dump me? Not happening! You'll never be able to repay what you owe me!"
Their alliance, built on mutual betrayal, crumbled when judgment came—each eager to push the other under the bus. This internal destruction was precisely what Mom had anticipated. We didn't need to lift a finger; reality itself was crushing them to dust.
The day of the court hearing dawned gray and overcast. Inside the courtroom, a solemn atmosphere hung heavy with tension. Grandpa, Grandma and I sat in the gallery, watching Mom in her crisp black suit at the plaintiff's table, her posture impeccable.
Dad and Aunt Rachel looked utterly wrecked at the defendant's table. Dad's face was haggard, his hair unkempt, his eyes sunken into dark hollows. Rachel had caked on makeup that failed to hide her bitterness and anxiety.
Graham methodically presented the evidence. When the video from the anniversary played on the courtroom screen, a deathly silence fell over the room. Those passionate embraces and explicit flirtations, displayed beneath the solemn emblem of justice, seemed particularly sordid and damning. Dad hung his head, wringing his hands, unable to watch his own disgrace unfold.
Most devastating was Rachel's recorded boasting. When her words "my sister is an idiot" and "I'll show that self-important bitch what it feels like to be nothing" echoed through the silent courtroom, even the normally impassive judge couldn't hide his disgust.
Dad's lawyer made a half-hearted final attempt, conceding his client's responsibility for the marriage breakdown but arguing for a standard 50/50 property division.
His arguments fell flat against the mountain of damning evidence.
The judge's gavel cracked like a gunshot. He looked at Dad's ashen face and spoke in a deliberately emotionless tone: "Mr. Scott, your behavior has not only betrayed your wife but has seriously violated basic social ethics and family values. In marriage, loyalty is fundamental—a line you've clearly crossed."
Then he turned to Mom, his expression softening with unmistakable respect.
"The court hereby rules as follows," the judge's voice rang with authority throughout the room. "First, the divorce between Katherine and Damian Scott is granted. Second, of the couple's joint property, Mrs. Scott shall receive sixty-five percent, including all real estate under both names. Third, Mr. Scott shall pay Mrs. Scott five hundred thousand dollars in compensation for emotional damages."
When the gavel fell again, I watched Mom's shoulders finally relax. She closed her eyes briefly and exhaled a long, slow breath.
We'd won. Completely and utterly won.
Dad slumped in his chair as if physically deflated, his eyes hollow, suddenly looking a decade older. Rachel let out a theatrical sob, but against the backdrop of justice served, her tears seemed pathetically insincere.
As we exited the courtroom, we faced a wall of reporters who had gathered for the verdict. Camera flashes popped like lightning, and a forest of microphones thrust toward Mom.
Mom didn't shy away. She calmly stopped and faced the cameras head-on.
She cleared her throat, her voice steady as it carried through the microphones: "I want to tell all women who have experienced similar betrayal that you don't have to suffer in silence. When we find the courage to stand up for ourselves, the law and society will support justice."
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a quiet power that commanded attention. Reporters frantically snapped photos, capturing this watershed moment. I stepped forward and squeezed Mom's hand, feeling its warmth and strength. Pride swelled in my chest as tears welled in my eyes, seeing the quiet radiance that now emanated from her.
Back at my grandparents' home, a feast awaited us. There was no wild celebration, just the quiet joy of justice served. After dinner, Mom's phone chimed with a notification—a bank deposit alert.
She stared at her phone screen for a long moment—at numbers that represented not just money, but freedom. Finally, she looked up, her gaze meeting each of ours before she smiled and said, "I'm going to open a small shop and do something I truly love."
Grandma walked over and gently stroked her hair, eyes glistening with tears. "That's wonderful, sweetheart. From today on, you can finally live for yourself."
