Chapter 2 - The Scars They Tried to Hide**
I removed my tailored camel-hair jacket, letting it drape neatly over the back of my chair, and slowly, deliberately, rolled up the left sleeve of my silk blouse.
Victor’s smug smile flickered for a fraction of a second, replaced by a sudden, uneasy frown.
Running all the way from my wrist up to my elbow was a long, jagged, discolored burn scar—a permanent souvenir from the night the main oil fryer exploded during our third year in business, when Victor refused to call an ambulance because he didn't want the health department or insurance inspectors snooping around our kitchen.
Then, without breaking eye contact with my ex-husband, I lifted the side of my blouse just enough to reveal the wide, puckered surgical scar crossing horizontally over my lower ribs—the internal trauma from when a heavy metal shelving unit collapsed on top of me during a late-night stockroom inventory while Victor was out drinking with investors.
A collective, audible gasp rippled through the gallery behind us.
Melissa stopped smiling instantly, her hand dropping flat against her lap as her eyes widened in shock. Even Victor’s high-priced attorney dropped his pen against the oak table with a sharp clatter.
“You told people this happened at home, Victor,” I said, my voice cutting through the silent courtroom with chilling clarity. “You told the insurance investigators that I wasn't an official employee of the corporation, meaning I wasn't covered under workplace injury policies. And when I passed out from internal bleeding at the hospital, you told the ER staff that I was just a clumsy, hysterical wife who had fallen off a kitchen stool.”
Victor’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle twitched violently in his cheek. He stood up halfway, panic flashing briefly across his eyes before he forced himself back down.
“Objection! That’s completely irrelevant to corporate asset distribution!” Victor snapped, looking frantically toward the judge. “This is a divorce proceeding, Your Honor, not a personal injury trial!”
“Sit down, Mr. Hale,” the judge commanded coldly, his eyes fixed entirely on the scars exposed on my arm and torso.
I looked down at Grace Callahan.
My attorney stood up, her movements deliberate and unhurried. She reached into her briefcase and placed a thick, heavy blue folder stamped with official legal seals onto the center of the table.
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The sound the folder made as it landed on the wood was surprisingly small.
What was inside it, however, was anything but.
