The cork popped at 9:04 in the morning.

“Ms. Miller.”

Evelyn Miller stood.

She didn’t pace. She didn’t perform. She stood perfectly still, and somehow that stillness pulled every eye in the room toward her.

“Ten million dollars,” she said, her voice clear and precise. “We thank Mr. Evans for his generosity. However, we are not here today to negotiate Mrs. Sterling’s settlement.”

A murmur ran through the gallery.

Evans’s smile tightened slightly.

“Mr. Evans paints a picture of a benevolent king bestowing riches upon a loyal subject. This picture is a fantasy — a narrative constructed to erase my client’s fundamental role, not only in this marriage, but in the very creation and ownership of the assets in question.”

She paused.

“We are not here to divide marital property, your honor. We are here to confirm legal ownership.”