Chapter 5 - The Trial of Ethan Sinclair
Six months later, the final hearing for the dissolution of the marriage of Clara Vance and Ethan Sinclair took place in the New York State Supreme Court building on Centre Street.
The courtroom was quiet, save for the soft clicking of the court reporter’s machine and the rustle of legal documents.
I sat at the plaintiff’s table beside Arthur Vance, wearing a sharp, midnight-blue suit, my hair pulled back into a sleek knot. I was calm, relaxed, and utterly prepared.
Across the aisle sat Ethan.
The six months had not been kind to him. The boyish, sun-kissed charm that had once made him look like a Gatsby prince had vanished completely. His skin was pale, his shoulders slouched, and he wore a charcoal suit that was noticeably too big for his diminished frame—a suit he had likely purchased off the rack at a department store. Beside him sat his court-appointed attorney, a tired-looking man who looked like he had spent the last six hours trying to explain basic contract law to a client who refused to accept reality.
Victoria sat in the front row of the gallery behind Ethan, wearing a modest dark dress, her face drawn and hollow. Her East Hampton estate had been sold at auction three months prior for sixty cents on the dollar, the proceeds swallowed entirely by back taxes and bank liens. She was now living in a modest two-bedroom apartment in Fort Lee, New Jersey—a fate she viewed as worse than death.
The judge, a sharp-eyed woman named Hon. Evelyn Mercer, slammed her gavel down to bring the session to order.
"We are here for the final decree of divorce and asset distribution in the matter of Vance v. Sinclair," Judge Mercer announced, reviewing the thick binder of evidence before her. "Counsel, I have reviewed the premarital agreement, the forensic accounting reports submitted by the plaintiff, and the cross-petitions filed by the defense."
Judge Mercer adjusted her glasses and looked down at Ethan’s lawyer. "Mr. Miller, your client is requesting spousal support in the amount of twenty-five thousand dollars per month, as well as a fifty-percent equity share in the Tribeca real estate. Is that correct?"
Ethan’s lawyer stood up reluctantly. "That is correct, Your Honor. My client gave up his own career prospects during the marriage to support the plaintiff’s demanding corporate career—"
"What career prospects?" Judge Mercer interrupted sharply, lifting a page from the filing. "According to the tax records provided, Mr. Sinclair’s total earned income over the seven years of this marriage was under forty-five thousand dollars total. He spent those seven years as a nominal 'advisor' to startups that had no assets, no revenue, and no corporate registration."
Ethan flinched as if he had been struck.
"Furthermore," Judge Mercer continued, her voice echoing coldly in the courtroom, "the prenuptial agreement signed by both parties in 2019 is extraordinarily clear. Section 14, Clause B explicitly states that in the event of proven marital infidelity, the offending party forfeits all claims to spousal maintenance, commingled property equity, and legal fee reimbursement."
Judge Mercer looked down at Ethan. "Mr. Sinclair, do you deny the authenticity of the hotel records, credit card receipts, and sworn statements from witnesses detailing your relationship with a Miss Chloe Bennett between September 2025 and March 2026?"
Ethan stood up, clutching the edge of the table. His hands were shaking. "Your Honor... Clara neglected me! She worked eighty hours a week! She prioritized her job over our marriage! I was lonely!"
"Working to pay for your luxury cars and mother’s estate is not legal grounds for infidelity, Mr. Sinclair," Judge Mercer said, her tone dripping with judicial contempt. "You were not neglected; you were funded."
The judge pulled a pen from her robe and signed the final decree with a sharp, decisive stroke.
"The prenuptial agreement is upheld in its entirety," Judge Mercer ruled, slamming her gavel down with a loud, final CRACK.
"The marriage between Clara Vance and Ethan Sinclair is officially dissolved. The plaintiff, Clara Vance, retains sole ownership of the Tribeca real estate, all personal investment portfolios, and all corporate equities. Furthermore, judgment is entered against the defendant, Ethan Sinclair, in the amount of three hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars for unauthorized personal expenditures drawn from corporate and shared accounts."
Judge Mercer looked over her glasses at Ethan one last time. "You have sixty days to begin payments to Ms. Vance, Mr. Sinclair. Court is adjourned."
The judge rose and exited behind the bench.
The courtroom erupted into a quiet buzz of activity. Arthur Vance leaned over, shook my hand warmly, and snapped his briefcase shut. "Congratulations, Clara. It’s over. Completely and totally over."
I stood up, holding my head high.
As I walked down the center aisle toward the double doors, Ethan stepped out into the aisle, blocking my path.
His eyes were red, filled with a mixture of rage, regret, and utter terror.
"Clara..." he choked out, his voice cracked. "Three hundred and eighty-two thousand dollars? I don't have three hundred dollars! I'm working as a floor manager at a valet company in Jersey City! I make forty thousand dollars a year! How am I supposed to pay you back?!"
I stopped three inches from him, smelling the cheap cologne he had started wearing, looking into the eyes of the man I had once thought was my partner.
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"That sounds like a personal financial problem, Ethan," I said smoothly. "Maybe you should try cutting back on three-thousand-eight-hundred-dollar shoes."
I stepped around him and pushed open the heavy wooden doors of the courtroom, stepping out into the bright, beautiful sunshine of lower Manhattan.
