Dancing On My Own

Chapter 10: Cross-Examination At Home!

The apartment was quiet when she returned that evening, but not empty.

Jared was waiting.

He sat on the leather sofa as though he still belonged there, jacket folded neatly over the armrest, a glass of her Scotch in his hand. The sight of him in her space made her chest tighten. He looked comfortable, deliberate—as if he had planned this intrusion.

“Breaking and entering now?” Ismene asked, setting her briefcase by the door. Her voice was cool, but her pulse was unsteady.

He smiled faintly. “You still keep the spare key in the planter. Old habits die hard.”

She crossed the room, heels clicking against the polished wood. “You’re not welcome here.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t take courtroom formality seriously in our living room.” He swirled the Scotch, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “Besides, we need to talk.”

“We said everything in court.”

“No, you performed in court,” Jared corrected. “That’s what you do—perform. But at home?” His eyes cut to her, sharp. “At home, you don’t get to hide behind precedent and procedure.”

She folded her arms, bracing herself. “Say what you came to say.”

He leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed. “Do you know what the whispers are, Ismene? That you’re difficult. That you’re impossible to live with. That no man could endure you for long. And they’re not wrong.”

The words landed like a blow, though she refused to flinch.

“You want to make me the villain,” he continued, voice smooth as silk. “But the truth is, you were never a wife. Not really. You were a barrister who happened to wear a ring. Always cross-examining, always suspicious, always working. I was an accessory to your career. And when I looked for comfort elsewhere, what did you expect?”

Her nails dug into her palms. “Comfort? That’s what you call betrayal?”

“I call it survival,” he said simply.

Silence pressed between them, heavy as stone. She wanted to scream, to throw the glass from his hand, to make him feel the fury clawing inside her. But she knew that was what he wanted—to provoke, to unbalance, to drag her into a fight where emotion clouded her strategy.

Instead, she drew a slow breath. “You think if you paint me as cold, as unloving, the court will sympathize with you?”

His smirk deepened. “Not think. Know. You’re brilliant in a courtroom, Ismene, but you underestimate the power of narrative. Judges don’t rule on evidence alone. They rule on stories. And right now, mine is a story about a woman too proud, too ruthless, to be human. Who do you think they’ll pity—me, or you?”

The cruelty of it almost stole her words. Almost.

“You forget,” she said finally, her voice low and dangerous, “that I write stories too. And mine has the evidence to back it.”

For the first time, his expression flickered. Just for a moment. Then the mask returned.

He finished the Scotch, set the glass neatly on the table, and stood. “This is going to destroy you, Ismene. Not because you’re wrong, but because you can’t separate the woman from the lawyer. And when the court sees that, they’ll strip you of everything. Including your pride.”

He moved toward the door, pausing only once to glance back at her. “I don’t have to beat you in court. You’ll do it to yourself.”

The lock clicked behind him, leaving the apartment in silence.

Ismene stood frozen, her chest heaving. She replayed his words, each one designed to unnerve her. And damn him, he had landed a few blows.

But she would not let them fester. She would not give him that victory.

Walking to her desk, she pulled out a fresh legal pad. Across the top, in bold letters, she wrote:

Cross-Examination – Jared Morgan.

Beneath it, she began a list. His claims, his patterns, his weaknesses. Each accusation he hurled tonight would become a weapon she could turn against him.

He had wanted a fight at home. He had given her ammunition instead.