Victor Okafor sat at the plaintiff’s table like a man waiting to receive applause. He adjusted the cuffs of an imported suit so smooth it looked poured onto him. Gold wristwatch. Gold confidence. Gold cruelty.

He leaned toward the man beside him. “She’s late,” he whispered, loud enough to be heard by fate.

Or maybe she’s finally realized there’s no point in showing up.

Acha Nosu, Victor’s lawyer, didn’t bother to hide his boredom. People in Rivers State called him The Hammer. Not because he built anything, but because once he started swinging, all that remained was splinters and signatures.

“It doesn’t matter if she shows,” Acha murmured, eyes on the documents. “We filed the emergency order to freeze all joint accounts on Monday. She has no access to cash.”

Victor smiled. His teeth showed, bright and useless, like a knife made for display.

“No money means no lawyer,” Acha continued, voice calm as oil. “And no lawyer facing me means she walks out of here with whatever crumbs we decide to give her.”

Across the aisle, Joy sat alone at the defense table.

Completely alone.

No assistant leaning in to whisper strategy. No neat stack of files. No glass of water. Just her hands folded tight enough to turn her knuckles pale, and a simple gray dress that looked like it had been bought at Balogun Market and ironed with discipline.

She looked smaller than Victor remembered, but not broken. Not yet. Her eyes stayed fixed on the heavy wooden doors at the back of the courtroom, like she was listening for something the rest of them couldn’t hear.

“Look at her,” Victor said, letting his voice carry to the handful of people in the public gallery. “Pathetic. It’s like watching a goat tied up at the abattoir.”

Acha’s lips twitched. A smile almost made it out.

“Focus,” Acha warned, though he didn’t sound worried. “Justice Okoro doesn’t like noise.”

Victor leaned back. “By two o’clock, I’ll be a free man. And she’ll be packing her things into one of those yellow danfo buses, headed back to wherever she came from.”

The door at the side opened and Officer Chuku, heavyset and weary, stepped inside wearing a bailiff’s uniform and the expression of a man who had watched love die in a hundred different ways.

“All rise,” he boomed. “The Honorable Justice Benjamin Okoro presiding.”

Everyone stood. Fabric rustled. Shoes shuffled. A few hearts tried to behave.

Justice Okoro entered with the brisk precision of a man who did not entertain excuses. His robe flowed behind him like a shadow trained to follow orders. Sharp face. Sharper eyes. The kind that measured people the way accountants measure risk.

He sat, adjusted his reading glasses, and looked down at the file.

“Be seated.”

The room obeyed.

He flipped the cover page. “Case number HCPH 2022/1847. Okafor versus Okafor. Preliminary hearing for dissolution of marriage, asset division, and spousal maintenance.”

His gaze shifted to Victor’s table. “Barrister Nosu. Good to see you.”

Acha stood smoothly. “Thank you, my lord. We are ready to proceed.”

Justice Okoro’s eyes moved to the defense table, pausing when he saw the emptiness beside Joy.

“Mrs. Okafor,” he said, voice even but edged. “I see you are here without counsel. Are you expecting representation?”

Joy stood slowly. Her legs shook just enough to reveal that she was human.

“Yes, my lord,” she said quietly. “She should be here very soon.”

Victor let out a snort, loud and deliberate, like a man tossing a match into dry grass.

Justice Okoro snapped his gaze at Victor. “Is something funny, Mr. Okafor?”

Acha placed a steady hand on Victor’s shoulder as if restraining a dog that had been trained to bite. “Apologies, my lord. My client is frustrated. This matter has dragged on for months.”

“Control your client,” Justice Okoro said coldly. “This is a court of law, not a beer parlor.”

He looked back at Joy. “This hearing was scheduled for ten. It is now five minutes past. If your attorney is not present within th