Keith Simmons sat in his three-thousand-dollar suit like a king on a borrowed throne.
His shark of a lawyer whispered strategy beside him while Keith pointed at the empty chair next to me, laughing. He had frozen my bank accounts, canceled my cards, and cut me off from everyone I knew. In his mind, the divorce was already over.
He’d even told the judge I was too incompetent to hire a lawyer.
He was wrong about one thing.
He forgot whose daughter I was.
Courtroom 304 smelled like dust and defeat. For Keith, it smelled like victory. He adjusted the cuffs of his tailored jacket and checked the watch he bought with our joint savings.
“She’s late,” he sneered. “Probably realized she can’t afford a lawyer.”
His attorney, Garrison Ford—the Butcher of Broadway—smiled coldly.
“No money means no counsel. No counsel means we take everything.”
Across the aisle, I sat alone in my plain gray dress, hands folded so tightly my knuckles burned. Keith saw weakness. He saw a woman he thought he had already broken.
“Look at her,” he laughed. “Like a deer waiting for a truck.”
The judge raised his gavel.
“Mrs. Simmons, are you representing yourself?”
“No,” I whispered. “My attorney is coming.”
Keith scoffed.
“Traffic? Or maybe the check bounced.”
“Enough,” the judge warned. “If counsel does not arrive—”
BAM.
The courtroom doors flew open.
The sound was so violent the walls shook.
Every head turned.
A woman in a flawless white suit stepped inside. Her silver hair was sharp as a blade. Three associates followed her, each carrying thick leather briefcases.
The room froze.
Garrison Ford went pale.
“No… it can’t be.”
Keith leaned forward. “Who is that?”
The woman walked down the aisle, heels clicking like a countdown.
She stopped beside me and finally looked at Keith.
Her smile was not kind.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said calmly. “I had to finish filing motions on your offshore accounts.”
The courtroom gasped.
“State your name,” the judge said.
“Catherine Bennett,” she replied. “Senior Partner, Bennett, Crown & Sterling. And I am counsel for the defendant.”
She paused.
“And I am her mother.”
Keith stared at me. “Your mother? You said she was gone.”
“I said she was gone from my life,” I replied quietly. “Not dead.”
Catherine opened her briefcase and dropped a stack of documents on the table.
“The prenup you brag about?” she said. “Signed under coercion. We have the texts where you threatened her cat and her grandmother’s care.”
Keith turned white.
“And the eight million you claim to have?” Catherine continued. “It’s actually twenty-four million, hidden in shell companies in the Cayman Islands.”
The judge leaned forward.
“Mr. Simmons… is that true?”
Keith opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
“That,” Catherine said softly, “is felony fraud.”
Garrison Ford stood.
“I move to withdraw as counsel.”
“You can’t!” Keith shouted.
“Yes, I can,” Garrison replied. “You just confessed.”
The judge slammed his gavel.
“All assets are frozen. Mrs. Simmons is awarded immediate possession of the marital home. Mr. Simmons, you have two hours to vacate.”
Keith collapsed in his chair.
Outside, as I stepped into the sunlight, a black sedan rolled up. My father stepped out, claiming the apartment as collateral for Keith’s loan.
Catherine took one look at the paperwork and laughed.
“He forged her signature,” she said. “That contract is void.”
My father went silent.
Keith had scammed him too.
Three months later, my art exhibition sold out.
That same day, Keith Simmons was sentenced to five years in federal prison for wire fraud.
I wasn’t the quiet woman in the gray dress anymore.
I was Grace Bennett—artist, survivor, and daughter of the Iron Gavel.
And this time, I wasn’t standing alone.