Chapter Thirty-Seven — New Teeth
I wake up before my alarm, the city still half-asleep beyond my blinds, the light outside that damp, undecided gray that makes everything feel unfinished. For a few seconds I lie there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the familiar stampede—panic galloping in first, thoughts chasing after it, my chest already tight before my brain even catches up.
It doesn't come.
Instead there's a strange stillness. Not peace. Peace is soft. This is sharp, clean, and awake—like a blade laid flat against my spine. A warning and a promise at the same time.
Resolve.
I sit up slowly and plant my feet on the floor, toes curling against the cool wood like I can anchor myself by force. The apartment smells faintly of coffee grounds from last night and lemon cleaner from the hurried wipe-down I did after I couldn't sleep. The remnants of a life that hasn't completely fallen apart yet—just cracked in all the right places.
My phone is face-down on the nightstand.
I don't flip it over immediately. That alone feels like progress.
Julian hasn't called.
Still.
I already know that. I don't need the screen to confirm it, don't need the little empty space where his name used to light up like a drug. What's different this morning is that the absence doesn't hollow me out the way it did before. It's there—aching, unresolved—but it no longer owns me.
If love has taught me anything, it's this: waiting is not power.
I shower, let hot water beat against my shoulders until my breathing evens out, then dress like I'm going to war. A fitted charcoal blazer. Black trousers. Heels I can walk fast in. I pull my hair back—not severe, not tender. Controlled. My reflection stares back at me, eyes steady, mouth set in a line that isn't anger and isn't fear either.
They want me rattled.
I pick up my phone.
Nothing new.
Good.
The law firm occupies three floors of a glass-and-steel tower downtown, the kind of place that smells like money and restraint. The lobby is quiet in that way rich places are quiet—soft footsteps, muted voices, the sound of decisions being made behind closed doors.
I arrive ten minutes early and watch people pass through: executives with coffee in one hand and authority in the other, assistants with tablets tucked to their chests like shields, interns moving too fast and trying not to look lost. No one looks twice at me. No one recognizes me.
That anonymity is a relief I didn't know I needed.
When I'm finally ushered into the conference room, the attorneys are already seated. Two women. One man. All of them composed, sharp-eyed, unreadable. No smiles meant to soothe. No sympathetic nods. The kind of faces that have seen worse than scandal and don't flinch at it.
Good.
I sit, set my folder on the table, and meet their gazes like I'm daring them to underestimate me.
"Ms. Rivera," one of the women says, flipping open a legal pad. Her voice is calm. Neutral. The tone of someone who doesn't waste emotion on what emotion can't fix. "We've reviewed the materials you sent."
I nod once. "And?"
She glances at her colleagues before continuing. "You're in a vulnerable position."
No sugarcoating. No theatrics. No pretending this is a movie where the right speech makes everything align.
I expected that.
"The public narrative is not in your favor," the man adds. He looks like he's never raised his voice in his life—because he's never had to. "Your former employer's internal policies are clear. The optics—"
"I'm aware of the optics," I say evenly. "I'm more interested in reality."
That earns me the faintest pause. Not approval. Attention.
The second woman leans forward, elbows resting lightly on the table like she's entering a chess match. "Reality is this: Cassandra Archer is disciplined, experienced, and well-funded. She will bleed you slowly if allowed."
My jaw tightens. I don't interrupt.
"But," she continues, "you are no longer defenseless."
She slides a document across the table.
Numbers. Entities. Structures.
My new reality, written in black ink like it was always meant for me.
"You now have leverage," she says. "Not emotional leverage. Financial. Procedural. Time."
Time.
I didn't realize how starved I'd been for it until that moment—starved the way you don't realize you're starving until someone puts food in front of you and your body almost cries out.
They outline the strategy carefully. What can be challenged. What can't. Where Cassandra is likely to strike next. Where she's already overextended herself. Where she relies on intimidation instead of fact. They don't promise victory.
They promise a fight.
And I realize, sitting in that room with three strangers who don't care who I slept with and don't care who hates me, that I'm not here to be saved.
I'm here to be armed.
"Do you understand," the first woman says, pen tapping once against her pad, "that the point isn't to prove you're a saint?"
I blink. "I'm not."
"Good," she says, as if that's the correct answer on a test. "Because saints get crushed in civil court. Our job is to make sure you don't get crushed."
She looks at me like she's measuring my spine.
"You'll have to keep your emotions out of the room," she adds. "Cassandra will try to bait you."
A humorless laugh escapes me. "She's been baiting me."
"Yes," the man says. "But now you're not alone. Now she has to bait a team."
I leave the building an hour later and the sun is higher, the city louder, the air warmer. It's the same world, but I feel different inside it—like I've put on armor under my skin.
My phone vibrates in my hand.
A text from my lead counsel.
Ready when you are. We'll file today.
I don't hesitate.
Do it.
If the last few weeks taught me anything, it's that gossip moves faster than truth. It doesn't matter what really happened. It matters what people can picture happening—and how much they enjoy picturing it.
By noon, I'm back in the part of town that still feels like Julian: glass buildings, steel elevators, power suits, espresso that tastes like bitterness pretending to be sophistication. I don't go into the firm. I don't have access. Not officially. Not right now.
So I do what I've learned to do: I operate around the edges.
I meet my attorney again in a smaller office near the courthouse—neutral territory, rented by the hour. A safe room. She lays out the filings like cards.
"We'll move to limit the admissibility of any illegally obtained recordings," she says. "We'll request chain-of-custody documentation for the security footage. We'll force them to establish who accessed it, who copied it, and why."
I exhale slowly. "It was security. It's theirs."
"Maybe," she says. "Maybe not. Don't assume the clean version of someone else's story."
That lands.
Because Cassandra's entire brand is clean versions of dirty stories.
"We're also filing for protective orders regarding media harassment," she continues. "Not because we think the court cares about your feelings, but because we want a record. Patterns matter."
Patterns.
Everything is patterns.
I nod. "And Elaine?"
A brief smile flickers on her face. "We'll keep that separate. Workplace retaliation is a different track. Focus on what's in front of you."
What's in front of me is court.
And Cassandra.
And the fact that the world feels like it's waiting to watch me fall again.
The courthouse is a different kind of building than the firm. The firm is sleek. The courthouse is heavy, old authority carved into stone. It doesn't care about your ambition. It doesn't care about your heartbreak. It cares about what can be proven and who can endure.
Outside, cameras linger like flies.
XMZ is there—of course they are. A man with a puffy jacket and a microphone pretends he's not staring at me. A woman with perfectly curled hair and perfectly hungry eyes lifts her phone like she's casually checking a message, but the lens is aimed right at my face.
I don't give them what they want.
I keep walking.
Inside, the air is colder. Sharper. People's voices sound smaller in here, like the building itself demands you lower your volume.
My attorney walks beside me, calm, unbothered. She's the kind of woman who knows exactly what she's worth and would never explain it to anyone.
I try to borrow that energy.
We enter the courtroom.
Cassandra is already there.
She sits with her attorneys, posture effortless, eyes scanning the room like she's taking inventory. She's dressed in cream again—soft colors on hard intentions. Hair smooth. Face flawless. The kind of beauty that's trained, not accidental.
She doesn't look at me right away.
That's still deliberate.
I sit at our table, hands folding in front of me. My heart is steady. Not calm. Steady. There's a difference.
The judge enters. We stand. Sit.
And then the dance begins.
Motions. Objections. Words that sound polite but cut like blades.
Cassandra's attorney speaks first. He's smooth, confident, the kind of man who says damaging things like he's complimenting you.
"Your Honor, we are requesting the court take note of the defendant's conduct," he begins, voice measured. "Her actions have contributed materially to the deterioration of the marriage at issue—"
My attorney stands immediately. "Objection. Argumentative and premature."
"Sustained," the judge says, not looking up from the file.
Cassandra's attorney smiles faintly like he expected it. "Then let's speak plainly. We have evidence of repeated after-hours access to Mr. Archer's private office. We have multiple witness statements. We have documentation of a pattern of inappropriate workplace behavior."
The words hit the room like a cold wave. Even though I knew they were coming, there's something about hearing them in public that makes my skin heat.
I keep my face neutral.
My attorney counters, calm as surgery. "We request the court compel disclosure of chain-of-custody for that footage, including the identity of anyone who accessed or duplicated it. We further request the court limit reliance on witness statements that have not been properly authenticated and are demonstrably biased by workplace conflict."
Demonstrably biased.
That phrase is a small revenge.
The judge's eyes flick to Cassandra. Cassandra's expression doesn't change, but there's a microsecond where her jaw tightens.
Good.
Cassandra's attorney pivots. "Your Honor, the defendant is attempting to distract from her own conduct by attacking process."
"Process is the point," my attorney says smoothly. "Without it, anything can be made to look like anything."
I swallow.
That's my entire life right now: made to look like whatever someone wants.
The judge takes notes, expression unreadable. He sets a schedule for disclosures. Compels certain documentation. Limits certain questions for now.
It isn't victory.
But it's traction.
Then Cassandra's attorney rises again, and this time he aims at me directly.
"Ms. Rivera," he says, turning, "isn't it true that you deliberately pursued a married man?"
A murmur ripples through the room.
My stomach twists, heat crawling up my neck.
My attorney stands. "Objection. Irrelevant. And inflammatory."
The judge glances up. "Counsel?"
Cassandra's attorney doesn't blink. "It goes directly to intent, Your Honor. Pattern. Purpose."
The judge pauses.
Then—"I'll allow limited questioning."
My throat goes dry.
My attorney's gaze flicks to me. Not fear. Instruction: Breathe. Answer only what is asked.
I look at Cassandra.
She finally looks at me fully—eyes calm, sharp, almost curious, like she's watching a science experiment.
I can't give her the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
Cassandra's attorney repeats the question, slower. "Isn't it true that you deliberately pursued a married man?"
The whole room feels like it's leaning in.
I could lie.
I could dodge.
But lies rot. They swell. They explode later.
So I lift my chin.
"I'm not here to perform purity," I say, voice steady. "I'm here because my conduct is being used as a weapon to destroy my livelihood and my future."
That earns a sharper murmur. The judge's pen pauses mid-scratch.
My attorney clears her throat softly—warning me not to give speeches.
So I answer cleanly, finally: "I had feelings. Yes."
Cassandra's attorney smiles. "Feelings."
"Yes," I repeat. "Feelings."
He tries to press. "And did you act on them?"
My attorney stands. "Objection. Beyond scope. We're not litigating intimacy. We're litigating misconduct, defamation, and procedural manipulation."
The judge nods slightly. "Sustained. Move on."
A small win.
My hands are cold now. My heartbeat finally thumps louder.
Cassandra's attorney shifts tactics—tries to paint me reckless, unstable, dramatic. He references the XMZ coverage without naming it. He hints at my "history of poor choices." He doesn't say felon, but the implication hovers like smoke.
My attorney cuts it down with objections like scissors.
Cassandra sits there, calm.
But she's watching.
And I realize something quietly shocking:
She's not enjoying this as much as she used to.
Because now every cut she makes costs her effort.
Now she has to work.
By the time the judge calls recess, my body feels like I've run a mile without moving. I follow my attorney into the hallway, posture straight, face composed, hands finally shaking once we're out of the room.
She hands me a bottle of water. "You did fine."
"Fine feels humiliating," I mutter.
"That's court," she says. "Fine is survival. Survival becomes leverage."
Across the hall, Cassandra steps out with her attorneys. She doesn't approach me. She doesn't have to.
She glances once, eyes flicking over me like I'm a problem she hasn't solved yet.
Then she walks past, close enough that her perfume brushes the air.
As she passes, she says softly—so softly only I can hear:
"You look better when you're scared."
I freeze.
My attorney doesn't hear it. Or if she does, she doesn't show it.
Cassandra keeps walking.
My stomach flips with anger and shame.
But something else rises underneath it—something colder.
No.
Not fear.
Clarity.
I watch Cassandra's back as she disappears down the hallway.
You can whisper all you want, I think. I'm not shrinking.
Back in the courtroom, the judge sets additional dates. Orders disclosures. Limits certain evidence until verified. Cassandra's team argues for expedited action; my team pushes back.
The judge doesn't smile. Doesn't lean toward either side.
He just does what judges do: measures, weighs, schedules.
When he finally adjourns for the day, it feels abrupt.
Like the world just slammed a door.
Outside, the cameras are still there.
XMZ lingers like a curse.
But I walk past them without looking. My attorney shields me with her body language like a wall.
I don't speak.
I don't smile.
I don't give them a headline.
That night, my apartment is dim and quiet when I step inside. The silence presses on me, and for a moment I consider not letting anyone in. Consider being alone with my thoughts like punishment.
Then my phone buzzes—Tasha.
You home? We're coming. Don't argue.
I don't argue.
An hour later, my doorbell rings. I open it to Tasha holding a bottle of wine like a weapon, Janelle carrying a paper bag of takeout like she's feeding an injured animal, and Marisol with her eyebrows already raised like she's ready to fight someone on principle.
"You look like you swallowed a lawyer," Marisol says, stepping in.
"I basically did," I mutter.
Tasha pulls me into a hug before I can dodge. "Sit," she orders. "Drink something. Eat something. Breathe."
We settle into my living room—wine glasses on the coffee table, takeout containers spread out like a feast we don't deserve.
Janelle watches me with that gentle seriousness that makes you feel both loved and exposed. "How bad was it?"
"It was… court," I say. "It's like being dissected politely."
Marisol snorts. "That's Cassandra's whole personality."
Tasha leans forward. "Did she look shook?"
I almost laugh. Almost.
"She looked… annoyed," I admit. "Like for the first time, she realized I'm not going away."
Janelle exhales softly. "That's dangerous."
"Everything is dangerous," I reply, then stop, surprised at the bitterness in my own voice.
Tasha's gaze softens. "You held it together."
"Barely."
Janelle's mouth tightens—she's trying not to say I told you so. But the truth sits behind her eyes.
"I told you to be careful," she says finally, gentle, not accusing. "Not because I wanted you small. Because I knew the kind of woman you were dealing with."
Marisol snaps her fingers toward Janelle. "Not tonight."
Janelle's cheeks flush. "I'm not attacking her."
"I know," Marisol says, voice softer now. "But she doesn't need a lesson. She needs a hand."
Tasha squeezes my knee. "Talk to us."
So I do.
I tell them about the questions. The insinuations. The way Cassandra's attorney tried to make my desire sound like a crime. The way Cassandra whispered in the hallway.
"You look better when you're scared," I repeat.
Marisol's face hardens. "Oh, she's sick."
Tasha shakes her head slowly. "That's… personal."
"It's meant to be," I say. "She wants me back in the corner."
Janelle reaches for my hand. "And are you going back?"
I look at my friends—their faces, their loyalty, their fear for me, their stubborn love.
And something inside me finally gives.
Not in a dramatic way. Not in a messy, cinematic collapse.
In a quiet breaking that feels like letting go of a breath I've been holding for months.
Tears slide down my face. I don't wipe them at first. I just let them fall.
"I loved him," I say, voice cracking. "I still do."
No one gasps. No one judges. No one looks away.
Tasha's eyes shine. Marisol's mouth tightens like she's holding back rage on my behalf. Janelle strokes my hand with her thumb like she's smoothing out a wound.
"That doesn't make you weak," Tasha says softly.
"It makes you human," Janelle adds.
"And it makes him lucky," Marisol says, and then rolls her eyes like she hates herself for sounding romantic. "Even if he's stupid."
I laugh through tears—one broken sound.
Tasha pulls me into another hug, and this time I let her.
For a few minutes, I just sit there in their arms, crying quietly, the wine untouched, the city humming outside like it doesn't know my name.
And in that moment, I understand something I didn't understand before.
I can be ambitious. I can be reckless. I can be wrong.
But I am not alone.
The world can try to turn me into a headline.
Cassandra can try to turn me into a cautionary tale.
But I still have people who know my real name.
When the tears finally slow, Marisol pours wine anyway and raises her glass like a toast.
"To new teeth," she says. "Because I'm tired of you biting your own tongue."
Tasha clinks her glass against hers. "To surviving court."
Janelle lifts hers last, eyes still soft. "To being smart enough to fight, and brave enough to feel."
I lift my glass too.
My hand is steady now.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the ache and the shame and the stubborn love I can't kill, something sharp settles into place.
Not hope.
Not waiting.
A decision.
If Cassandra wants a war, she's going to get one.