Kevin stared at him. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we claim she used you. Married you, let you improve trust property, then pulled the rug out. We make her sound calculated. Dangerous. We ask for damages.”

“Do it,” Kevin said instantly. “Burn her.”

Across the hall, Erin watched them.

“They’re going to pivot,” she said under her breath. “They’ll say you baited him.”

Paige took a sip of water. “I didn’t bait him. I told him my family had ties to the property and that we were getting the lot for one dollar because of it. He was too busy bragging to his friends about stealing lakefront land for almost nothing to ask a single follow-up. He signed the packet without reading the addendum.”

“I know,” Erin said. “But they’re desperate now.”

When court started again, the whole room felt different. Heavier. Sharper.

Brian came out swinging.

“Your Honor,” he said, voice full of fake outrage, “the deed issue only highlights something even worse. Mrs. Moore orchestrated this. She allowed my client to invest years of work and substantial money into that property while hiding the fact that she could later revoke his interest. This is not a title dispute. This is a planned financial ambush.”

Paige’s jaw tightened.

“My client built that home,” Brian said, gesturing dramatically toward Kevin, who was now slumped just enough to look wounded. “His money, his labor, his vision. Mrs. Moore stood back, knowing full well she held a hidden clause over his head. That is fraud.”

Judge Foster leaned back. “Fraud requires proof of intentional deception. Do you have it?”

Brian slapped his palm against the table. “She never disclosed she was an heiress. She concealed material information. And now, suddenly, she wants total control. She is unstable, Your Honor. We have records showing severe depression after a miscarriage three years ago. We believe she is acting out of trauma, vengeance, and emotional imbalance.”

A ripple moved through the courtroom.

It was filthy.

Even the court reporter shifted in her seat.

Paige stood before Erin could stop her.

“Mrs. Moore,” Judge Foster said, eyeing her carefully, “you are represented.”

“I know, Your Honor,” Paige said. “But I need to answer this myself.”

Her voice wasn’t loud, but it filled the room anyway.

“Mr. Adams is right about one thing,” she said. “I was depressed three years ago.”

She turned toward Kevin. He wouldn’t look at her.

“We lost our daughter,” Paige said. “And when I came home from the hospital, Kevin wasn’t there. He was at a closing dinner for a strip mall deal. He texted me that life goes on and told me not to wallow because it made his investors uncomfortable.”

The room went silent in a way that felt physical.

“I never hid my name,” she said, turning back to the judge. “The land was given to us as a wedding gift from my grandmother, who ran the Howard Trust. We got leasehold rights for one dollar. The packet was titled Leasehold Grant from Howard Trust to K. Moore and P. Howard. It was right there on the first page.”

She lifted a document from the table.

“He didn’t read it. He was busy rushing the notary because he had a tee time. He didn’t know I came from money because I didn’t want that to be the reason he loved me. By the time I realized he only loved what I was useful for, I stopped explaining myself.”

Judge Foster’s voice softened. “And now?”

Paige looked straight ahead. “Now I’m enforcing paragraph four, section B. In the event of marital dissolution involving infidelity or abandonment by the non-blood spouse, the lease terminates immediately.”

Brian froze. “That clause isn’t—”

“It’s in the 1922 addendum,” Erin said, sliding the paper over. “The morality clause. Outdated? Absolutely. Repealed? No.”

Brian flipped through pages fast, breathing harder now. “Infidelity is unproven. Hearsay. Speculation. Lunches with a coworker aren’t adultery.”

Paige turned toward the back of the courtroom.

The oak doors opened.

A young woman walked in, tense and pale, clutching her purse so hard her fingers had gone white. It wasn’t Molly.

It was Sarah Miller, the receptionist from Kevin’s real estate office.

“I call Sarah Miller,” Erin said.

Kevin’s color dropped again.

Sarah knew too much. His schedule. His expense reports. The hotels. The accounts. The paperwork.

Her testimony wasn’t long.

It didn’t need to be.

“Ms. Miller,” Erin said gently, “did you arrange travel for Mr. Moore and Molly Jenkins?”

“Yes,” Sarah said quietly. “Five trips. Cabo. Aspen. Miami. He used the company card and told me to code them as client development.”

“And did he ever ask you to do something outside the scope of your job?”

Sarah looked at Kevin. He was staring at her so hard it felt like a threat.

Then she looked away.

“He told me to forge Mrs. Moore’s signature on a second mortgage application three months ago,” she said.

Judge Foster’s eyebrows shot up.

“Excuse me?”

“He wanted equity out of the house because he’d lost money in crypto,” Sarah said, voice stronger now. “He practiced Paige’s signature in his office. He asked me to notarize it. I said no. Then he found somebody online willing to do it for cash.”

Kevin shot to his feet so fast his chair crashed backward.

“She’s lying,” he shouted. “She’s bitter. I fired her because she was incompetent.”

“Sit down, Mr. Moore,” Judge Foster barked.

The whole room flinched.

“One more outburst and I will hold you in contempt.”

Kevin dropped back into his seat, breathing too fast. Brian sat there with both hands over his face.

He knew.

It was done.

Losing the house was one thing. Forging a spouse’s signature for a federally insured loan was something else entirely.

“Ms. Coleman,” Judge Foster said, now icy calm, “do you have the mortgage document?”

“We obtained it from the bank this morning,” Erin said, handing it up. “We intended to use it in rebuttal. Since opposing counsel raised bad faith, it became relevant sooner.”

Judge Foster compared the signature on the mortgage application to Paige’s real signature on the affidavit. They were close enough to fool somebody careless. Not close enough to survive scrutiny.

He lowered the paper slowly.

“Mr. Moore,” he said, “not only does it appear you do not actually own the land beneath this structure, it appears you committed a felony while trying to pull value out of it.”

Kevin turned to Brian. “Say something. Object.”

Brian stood up.

Then he began packing his briefcase.

Kevin stared at him. “What are you doing?”

“I’m withdrawing,” Brian said.

He didn’t raise his voice, but the microphone still picked it up.

“I cannot continue representing a client who has committed fraud without my knowledge and expects me to assist in false testimony.”

Then Brian Adams walked out.

Just like that.

No dramatic speech. No backward glance.

Kevin Moore sat alone at counsel table with empty wood stretching around him like open water. Across the aisle, Paige looked at him, and the look on her face wasn’t anger anymore.

It was pity.

That hurt him worse.

Judge Foster cleared his throat. “Mr. Moore, you are now without counsel. I strongly recommend you retain criminal representation immediately. As for the matter before this court, I’ve heard enough.”

He picked up his pen.

“The court recognizes the Howard Trust and the reversionary clause as valid and enforceable. The property at 12 Oakwood Lane, including all improvements and structures, is under the sole control of the trust, administered by Paige Howard.”

Kevin folded forward and put his forehead on the table.

“Further, I am ordering an immediate freeze on Mr. Moore’s assets pending investigation into possible bank fraud. As to spousal support—Mrs. Moore, are you seeking alimony?”