And at her throat, resting against the black fabric like a flame in a dark room, was the sapphire.

Catherine stopped breathing.

For a moment, the room disappeared. The lawyers, the judge’s bench, the clerk, the bailiff, the stale smell of wax, even Jonathan’s profile — all of it fell away until there was only blue.

That impossible blue.

The platinum vine setting caught the fluorescent light in a way no replica could. Catherine knew every curve of it. Every leaf. Every old mine-cut diamond around the center stone. She had cleaned it herself with a tiny brush and warm water, terrified of damaging it, thinking of her father’s hands every time she closed the clasp.

Bianca touched it lightly as she settled in.

As if it were hers.

Catherine’s stomach turned so violently she pressed one hand against the table. Rage followed the nausea, white-hot and blinding. Not the messy rage of shouting. Something cleaner. More dangerous.

“He staged it,” she whispered.

Rebecca turned her head a fraction.

“What?”

Catherine gripped Rebecca’s sleeve hard enough to wrinkle the wool.

“Look at her neck.”

Rebecca looked.

Three seconds.

That was all it took.

Her expression did not change, but her eyes narrowed.

“Is that it?”

“That is my family sapphire,” Catherine said, her voice trembling. “He didn’t just cheat on me. He robbed me. He took my father’s last gift and put it around her neck.”

Catherine started to rise.

Rebecca’s hand came down on her wrist with surprising force.

“Do not move.”

“Rebecca—”

“Do not speak. Do not turn around again. Do not give them a moment they can use.”

“She’s wearing stolen property.”

“I know.”

Rebecca’s mouth curved into a smile so small and cold it made Catherine look at her instead of the necklace.

“Let her wear it,” Rebecca said. “In fact, let’s make sure the judge gets a good look.”

Behind them, Bianca shifted, mistaking Catherine’s rigid stillness for defeat. Catherine could almost feel the younger woman’s satisfaction. Bianca thought the necklace was a declaration. A coronation. Proof that Catherine’s history, marriage, home, and name had all been transferred to a younger neck.

She had no idea she had walked into court wearing an anchor.

“All rise.”

The bailiff’s voice cracked through the room.

Judge Samuel Peterson entered with the tired severity of a man who had heard thousands of people lie and had developed no patience for it. He adjusted his glasses, looked down at the file, and took his seat.

“Brooks v. Brooks. Continuation of evidentiary hearing. Mr. Channing, direct examination of your client.”

Jonathan stood, buttoning his jacket with a practiced motion. He walked to the witness stand as if he owned even the aisle. When he swore to tell the truth, Catherine felt Rebecca’s hand go still beside her.

For forty-five minutes, Jonathan performed the version of himself he had rehearsed.

He was calm. Regretful. Burdened by Catherine’s volatility. He described their marriage as strained by her “increasing emotional instability,” her “financial impulsiveness,” her “difficulty accepting the natural end of a relationship.” He spoke of Bianca as if she had drifted into his life long after Catherine had made the marriage impossible.

Then Channing turned to the burglary.

“Mr. Brooks, your wife has implied, through counsel, that you may have been involved in the disappearance of certain jewelry from the Highland Park estate. How do you respond?”

Jonathan sighed, low and sorrowful.

“It breaks my heart. Catherine was devastated, of course. I was too. But she had a habit of forgetting the alarm. The police found no forced entry. I believe it was simply a tragic burglary, and I have tried to be fair in resolving it.”

“And the insurance payout?”

“Two hundred fifty thousand dollars,” Jonathan said smoothly. “Placed into joint escrow for replacement and repairs.”

Catherine’s fingers curled beneath the table.

Channing sat down wearing the faint smile of a man who thought he had polished a lie until it shone.

Judge Peterson looked at Rebecca.

“Ms. Styles.”

Rebecca stood slowly.

She carried nothing to the podium.

That alone made Jonathan blink.

“Mr. Brooks,” she began pleasantly, “let’s discuss your timeline with Ms. Bianca Foley.”

Jonathan’s eyes flickered toward the gallery.

Catherine did not turn around.

Rebecca did not either.

“You testified in deposition that your romantic relationship with Ms. Foley began in February of this year, three months after separation from my client. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“In November of last year, the month of the burglary, Ms. Foley was simply a contracted interior designer working on one of your developments.”

“Yes.”

“No personal relationship.”

“No.”

Rebecca nodded. “Under oath, have you ever purchased or gifted high-value jewelry to Ms. Foley during your marriage?”

Jonathan hesitated.

A fraction.

But enough.

“I bought her pearl earrings for her birthday,” he said. “Nothing extravagant.”

“No diamonds?”

“No custom platinum work?”

His jaw tightened.

“No rare Ceylon sapphire?”

Silence moved through the courtroom like a hand across water.

Jonathan’s face remained composed, but Catherine saw the muscle jumping near his temple.

Rebecca turned toward the judge.

“Your Honor, the defendant has just testified that the insurance payout for the Highland Park burglary was placed into joint escrow. Plaintiff submits Exhibit C, subpoenaed routing records from Liberty Mutual. The two hundred fifty thousand dollars was not deposited into escrow. It was routed into an offshore account connected to a Delaware LLC called BF Designs.”

Channing shot to his feet. “Objection. Relevance.”

“Overruled,” Judge Peterson snapped. His eyes moved to Jonathan. “Where is the money, Mr. Brooks?”

Jonathan opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Rebecca stepped away from the podium and allowed the silence to ripen.

Then she looked at the courtroom doors.

“To clarify the location of the missing assets, plaintiff calls Oliver Trent.”

The effect was immediate.

Bianca made a small choking sound in the gallery.

Catherine felt it more than heard it. A shockwave of panic behind her. She turned just enough to see Bianca’s hand fly to the sapphire, fingers clamping around it as if the stone had suddenly burned her skin.

Jonathan turned too, confused.

“Bianca?” he mouthed.

Bianca did not look at him.

She stared at the back doors like a condemned person watching the executioner enter.