My mother-in-law fed my dinner to the dog and called me a freeloader after a fourteen-hour workday. My husband told me to order takeout. I pulled up the deed to the condo I’d bought before we met, opened the front door, and told all three of them to pack their bags...

The lobby of the King County Superior Court on Fourth Avenue was already crowded by eight-fifteen the next morning.

The air was heavy with the smell of wet wool, damp umbrellas, and the burnt coffee from the basement concession stand. People in cheap suits clutching manila folders were pacing back and forth along the polished stone corridors, while bailiffs in dark blue uniforms checked badges at the metal detectors.

Linda Martinez was waiting for me outside Department 12 on the third floor.

She was fifty-two, had gray-streaked hair cut into an immaculate bob, and wore a navy wool suit that looked as though it had been pressed with an iron hot enough to fuse steel. She was holding a leather portfolio that bulged with color-coded exhibits.

"You look like you haven't slept since Tuesday," Linda said, her dark eyes evaluating my face with clinical precision.

"I slept three hours," I said, handing her the fresh thumb drive containing the midnight spreadsheet. "The locks are changed. The management company wiped their access credentials at eight o'clock last night."

"Good," Linda said, sliding the drive into an interior pocket. "Because Mark went to legal aid in Tacoma at seven this morning. He found some fresh-out-of-law-school volunteer who filed an emergency motion for a writ of assistance to regain entry, claiming 'wrongful ouster of a lawful marital co-tenant.'"

"Can they get it?"

Linda laughed—a short, sharp sound that had zero warmth in it. "Not with this judge. We have Judge Holbrook. She’s seventy years old, she wrote the state bar's treatise on separate-property enforcement, and she despises deadbeat spouses who try to use the domestic relations court to avoid paying rent. Look who just arrived."

I turned.

Coming down the marble corridor was Mark, accompanied by a young man in an ill-fitting polyester suit who looked no older than twenty-five and was clutching a yellow legal pad like a shield.

Behind them was Eleanor.

She had dressed for court in an oversized black coat that made her look like an elderly crow, her face painted with a theatrical pallor that suggested she was within twenty minutes of total cardiovascular collapse. She was leaning heavily on Chloe’s arm, who was chewing gum aggressively and glaring at every person who passed them.

Mark stopped ten feet from us.

He was wearing the one good navy blazer I had bought him for my firm’s holiday party two years ago. His tie was crooked, his hair was uncombed, and his eyes were bloodshot from a night spent on a cheap motel mattress.

"Sarah," he said, taking a step toward me.

Linda instantly stepped into the gap, her small frame radiating an aura of pure, litigious hostility.

"Mr. Vance," Linda said, her voice cutting through the corridor noise like a razor blade. "Do not address my client directly. You have counsel. Direct your remarks through him."

The young lawyer cleared his throat, adjusting his wire-rimmed glasses with a trembling finger. "Uh, yes. I'm Kevin Miller, representing Mr. Vance. We have filed an emergency application for an immediate restoration of tenancy under RCW 59.18—"

"Save it for the bench, Kevin," Linda interrupted, not even looking at him. "You’re citing the Residential Landlord-Tenant Act for an owner-occupied condominium governed by an unassailed separate-property prenuptial agreement. Did your client fail to mention Exhibit B, or did you just skip the family law modules during your bar prep?"

The young lawyer’s mouth opened slightly. He looked down at his yellow legal pad, then darted a frantic, nervous glance at Mark.

"We... we contend that the prenuptial agreement is procedurally unconscionable due to the disparity in the parties' earning capacities at the time of execution," the boy stammered, reading directly from his notes.

"The agreement was reviewed by independent counsel retained and paid for by Mr. Vance's own uncle three weeks prior to the wedding," Linda snapped. "The certificate of independent legal advice is attached as Exhibit D. It is registered with the county clerk. If you bring that argument before Judge Holbrook, she will sanction you five hundred dollars for filing a frivolous motion before you finish your opening sentence."

Eleanor lunged forward, her voice rising into an hysterical wail that echoed off the high marble ceiling. "She threw us out in the rain! She starved my son! She fed his dinner to the dog!"

A bailiff standing twenty feet away turned his head, his hand resting casually on his leather duty belt. "Keep it down out here, folks. Court is in session."

Eleanor shrank back, clutching Chloe’s shoulder with both hands.

"Judge Holbrook is taking the bench," Linda said, checking her watch. "Let's go inside, Sarah. It’s time to finalize the paperwork."

I looked at Mark as I stepped past him.