“It is a shell, a hobby that got out of hand, and now Mr. Hawthorne simply wants to recover what he can from the wreckage.”
Vance sat down. The silence that followed was thick with judgment. I could feel the eyes of the reporters burning into the back of my neck. They were already composing the headlines: Hawthorne heiress bankrupts startup. Brother left holding the bag.
Judge Keane looked over his reading glasses at our table.
“Ms. Ruiz, does the defense wish to make an opening statement?”
Daniela stood up. She did not pace. She did not use big hand gestures. She stood perfectly still.
“We do, Your Honor,”
she said. Her voice was not loud, but it cut through the room’s humidity like a scalpel.
“The narrative presented by Mr. Vance is compelling. It has drama. It has emotion. It has a very large number attached to it. However, it lacks one critical element.”
She paused, letting the silence stretch for three seconds.
“Truth.”
Daniela reached for the first of the three boxes.
“We contest the validity of the debt. We contest the claim of insolvency. And we contest the characterization of my client’s business as a hobby. The plaintiff claims Ms. Ross borrowed $2.4 million to save a failing company. We will demonstrate that no such transfer ever occurred. That the loan documents submitted to this court are fabrications, and that Northbridge Shield Works is not only solvent, but is currently one of the most secure financial entities in the state of Illinois.”
She patted the top of the box.
“We have prepared three thousand pages of discovery, Your Honor— forensic accounting, server logs, and sworn affidavits—that paint a very different picture of why the Hawthorne family is so desperate to force this company into receivership.”
Bryce laughed. It was a short, sharp sound, quickly stifled, but it was there. He thought we were bluffing. He thought I was still the girl who hid in her room while he charmed the country club.
Judge Keane did not look impressed by the laugh. He pulled the case file toward him, opening the thick binder Vance had submitted. He flipped through the pages, his expression neutral.
“Two point four million,”
the judge muttered, reading.
“Promissory note dated October 14th, 2022.”
“Yes, Your Honor,”
Vance said, half rising from his chair.
“Signed and notarized.”
The judge turned a page, then another. He rubbed his temple. For a moment, it seemed like he was just going through the motions, skimming paperwork so he could move on to the next case on his docket. I watched his hand. He wore a gold wedding band and a watch that looked practical, not flashy.
He stopped.
His hand froze on a page near the back of the plaintiff’s exhibit. It was the section detailing the assets of Northbridge Shield Works that Bryce wanted to seize. The judge’s brow furrowed. He tilted his head slightly, as if he were trying to read fine print that didn’t make sense. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment, narrowing his eyes, searching his memory. Then he looked back down at the document.
The atmosphere in the room shifted. The scratching of reporter pens stopped. Even my mother seemed to hold her breath.
Sensing a disruption in the rhythm of the performance, Judge Keane slowly took off his reading glasses. He folded them and placed them on the bench. He looked at me. It was not the look of a judge looking at a defendant. It was the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle that had just changed shape in front of his eyes. He looked at me, then at the name on the file, then back at me.
“Counsel,”
the judge said. His voice was quiet, but the microphone picked it up and amplified the bass, sending a rumble through the floorboards.
“Approach the bench.”
Daniela moved instantly. Vance hesitated for a split second, glancing at Bryce before buttoning his jacket again and walking to the front. I could not hear what was being whispered, but I saw the body language. The judge leaned over, tapping a finger on the document. He spoke in a low, urgent murmur. Daniela nodded once, her face impassive. But Vance— I watched the color drain out of Sterling Vance’s face. It started at his neck and moved up to his hairline until he looked like a sheet of printer paper. He gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles turning white. He tried to say something, shaking his head, pointing back at his client, but the judge cut him off with a sharp hand motion.
The judge waved them back.
“Sit down,”
Judge Keane ordered.
Vance practically stumbled back to his table. He leaned over and whispered something frantically to Bryce for the first time all morning. The smirk vanished from my brother’s face. He looked confused, then annoyed. My father sat up straighter, his betrayed-parent mask slipping to reveal the shark underneath.
Judge Keane picked up his glasses but did not put them back on. He held them like a gavel. He looked out over the courtroom, his gaze sweeping over the reporters, over my parents, and finally landing squarely on me.
“Ms. Ross,”
the judge said. He did not address my lawyer. He addressed me directly.
I stood up. My legs felt weak, but I locked my knees.
“Yes, Your Honor.”
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