The silence was suffocating. It was a vacuum. Sixteen people were staring at me, waiting for the breakdown. Waiting for the hysterical ex-wife to throw a drink or scream.
I stood up slowly. I picked up my napkin and set it gently on the table.
“Did I?” I asked. My voice was calm, clear, steel wrapped in silk.
Marcus blinked. “What?”
“Did I sign papers? Are you sure about that, Marcus?”
His confidence flickered. A crack in the façade. “Elena, don’t be dramatic. You know you did. My lawyer sent them to you. You signed and returned them.”
“Your lawyer sent papers,” I corrected. “Someone signed them. Someone returned them. But Marcus… are you absolutely certain that someone was me?”
“What are you talking about?” There was fear in his voice now.
I picked up my phone. “I think we should listen to the experts.”
I tapped the screen. The recording I had made in Maya’s office played through the phone’s speakers, amplified by the silence of the room.
The forensic examiner’s voice was professional, dry, and devastating.
“Based on my analysis of the signature on the divorce documents filed in Clark County, Nevada, versus the authenticated exemplars of Elena Hartley’s handwriting… it is my professional opinion that the signature was NOT made by Elena Hartley. The pressure points are wrong. The letter formation is inconsistent. There are multiple indicators of simulation. This is a forgery.”
I stopped the recording.
“So, no, Marcus,” I said. “I didn’t sign your papers. Which means we aren’t divorced. Which means you just announced your engagement to your mistress while you are still legally married to me.”
I looked around the table.
“In front of sixteen witnesses.”
