“Before I sign, Your Honor, I have one last piece of evidence.”
The courtroom froze. The air turned thick, tense, like the seconds before a storm hits. My wife, Lenora, smirked—the same cold, victorious look she’d worn for eight months, ever since she dropped divorce papers on the kitchen counter. She had planned this meticulously: the house, both cars, our savings, custody of our three children, and $4,200 a month in child support for the next eighteen years. My life, she thought, was hers to claim.
Her lawyer, Desmond Pratt, waited for me to crumble. But I didn’t.
“Discovery ended months ago, Mr. Chandler. What could possibly be so urgent?” Judge Rowan Castellan asked, his tone impatient.
“This evidence only came into my possession seventy-two hours ago, Your Honor,” I said, steady despite the hammering of my heart. “It must be reviewed before any final documents are signed.”
Lenora’s smirk faltered. Pratt tried to dismiss it as stalling.
“I’m not stalling,” I said, voice rising. “I’m stalling because the terms are built on fraud.”
The word hit like a bullet. Lenora’s face shifted—confusion, anger, fear. I handed a plain manila envelope to the judge. Inside: DNA test results for Marcus, twelve; Jolene, nine; Wyatt, six.
“I am not the biological father of any of these children,” I said.
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