“Objection,” I call. “Speculation.”
“Withdrawn,” Ezra says with a grin. “Mr. Crane, did you know that the man you saw coming in and out of Mrs. Johanson’s house was her spiritual advisor?”
Oh, what a load of horseshit.
“Objection, Your Honor,” I almost laugh. “This is irrelevant.”
Ezra directs his attention to the judge. “This is completely relevant, Your Honor, I assure you.”
Judge Hoffstein nods minutely. “Overruled.”
“Thank you.” Ezra inclines his head. “You see, Mrs. Johanson’s visitor, a Mr. Jacobs, had been hired several weeks prior by Mrs. Johanson to oversee her spiritual direction. There was nothing nefarious about their encounters. If you’ll be so kind as to take a look at Exhibit 13—you’ll note the credentials I’ve provided to prove Mr. Jacobs’s employment at a company offering such services.”
Son of a bitch. How did we miss that?
Ezra looks smug as the judge peruses the bit of evidence in question; to an outsider he would simply look contemplative, but I’ve seen that look on his face too many times. In and out of the courtroom.
“Mrs. Johanson was simply exploring her new faith,” Ezra continues. “There is no evidence to suggest that she and Mr. Jacobs were meeting under false pretenses, and she paid him for his time. Therefore, this line of questioning isn’t relevant to this alimony hearing.”
Ezra waits until the exhibit has been passed to the bailiff before he turns back to the witness. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Crane.” He looks to the judge. “No further questions, Your Honor.”
Ezra takes his seat on his side of the courtroom, a small smile on his lips, practically laughing at the way I’m shooting daggers right now. I feel Mr. Johanson lean into me, whispering, “She can’t seriously pull this shit, can she?”
I want to tell him no, that cheating spouses get what they deserve—that doesn’t include an overly fat alimony check—but I know that without any concrete evidence of infidelity, which we haven’t been able to unearth no matter how hard we’ve looked, it’s likely Mrs. Johanson will be milking her soon-to-be-ex-husband dry for years to come.
Fucking Ezra Hart.
* * *
?I pinch the bridge of my nose as I wait for the elevator to open, trying to stave off the headache forming behind my eyes. It had taken weeks to find out about Mrs. Johanson’s little spiritual advisor who came twice a week like clockwork, unbeknownst to her husband while he was at work, and it had felt like an ace in the hole. Until Ezra swooped in and plugged it right up, that is.
They call him “the heartbreak prince” in the papers; it’s a stupid fucking moniker that he absolutely eats up, I’m sure. His win record is astounding, and every time I have to be in the same courtroom with him, I know I’m in for a world of bullshit. Not to say I haven’t won against him, because I have—but not nearly as much as I’d like, today included.
The elevator dings, and I climb inside, grateful to find it empty as I settle against the back wall to let my head thunk against the cool metal. I close my eyes as I wait for the doors to close, only snapping them back open when I hear something nudging between them to force them back open.
“Room for one more?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “You could always take the stairs. Get a workout in.”
Ezra laughs as he strolls into the elevator, leaning against the bar at the back wall as I scoot away from him. “You’ve never had any complaints about my body.”
I glare up at him as the elevator doors slide closed, trapping us inside. He always knows exactly what to say to push my buttons, just like he knows that his stupid face and body are lethal distractions when it comes to remembering how much I dislike him. It’s not the dark blond hair that always looks like someone just ran their fingers through it, not the full mouth or the piercing green eyes or the amazing bone structure that makes his face look carved—it’s all of it, really. The broad shoulders that fill out his tailored suits a little too well, his long fingers that stir up wicked memories, even his stupid cologne makes you want to lean in closer to get a better whiff.
At least he only has four to five inches on me—I’ve always been on the taller side, and not having to crane my neck up to his six foot three from my five foot nine gives me an ounce of satisfaction. Especially in my heels.
“Yeah, well, that’s just about the only good thing you have going for you,” I mumble back, facing my eyes forward to watch the numbers tick by and mentally urging them to go faster.