The day my husband filed for divorce, he walked into court wearing the same charcoal-gray suit he had worn on our wedding day.

Across the courtroom, Julian Vance looked at me and smiled as though the outcome had already been decided.

He wanted everything.

The house.

Our savings.

And full custody of our eight-year-old son, Noah.

According to the papers his attorney filed, I was unstable, overly emotional, careless with money, and incapable of properly caring for our child.

His lawyer even claimed I had neglected my responsibilities as both a wife and a mother.

I sat quietly in my dark blue dress, hands resting together in my lap, listening as people described a version of me I barely recognized.

Behind Julian sat his mother, Eleanor.

She wore pearls and an elegant cream jacket, occasionally pressing a tissue beneath perfectly dry eyes.

“My son only wants peace,” she murmured loudly enough for everyone nearby to hear.

Peace.

That was an interesting word for what they had done.

Apparently, peace meant Julian draining most of our joint bank account shortly before filing for divorce.

Peace meant canceling my credit cards without warning.

Peace meant Eleanor quietly telling Noah that his mother was “confused” and that Daddy knew what was best for him.

And sitting beside Julian was Chloe Bennett, his office manager.

She pretended to be nothing more than a loyal employee and concerned family friend.