Abigail slammed her palm on the table, leaned across, and hissed into my face.

"I said your whole family is vicious. Your mother deserved to be run over!"

Smack!

I struck her across the face with everything I had. The sound cracked through the room.

Stunned, Abigail's head whipped to the side. For a heartbeat she froze, then clawed toward my face.

"Julian, you bastard—how dare you hit me?!"

The commotion woke Jane. She came running on bare feet, eyes wide with panic.

"Mommy, don't hit Daddy!"

Abigail's hand stopped midair. She looked at the child, clenched her jaw, then shoved me to the floor.

"You'll regret this, Julian."

The front door slammed so hard the walls shook.

I held Jane in my arms, my teeth grinding, my chest trembling.

'Regret? No, Abigail. The one who will regret this is you.'

That night, the surveillance footage of my mother-in-law's accident shot up the trending searches.

Her brother stormed into my place with his phone in hand, his whole body quaking with fury.

"Those bastards! My sister died so horribly, and now they twist the story like this? Do they even have a shred of humanity left?"

I poured him water, then took the phone.

Unlike the footage I saw at the police station, the version circulating online is vague, carefully angled to hide the part where my mother-in-law was just tying her shoelaces. The clip slows down, and the added subtitles frame it as if she was preparing to scam someone.

If I hadn’t watched the original surveillance myself, I might have believed it too.

No wonder the comments are full of curses aimed at her.

[They say it’s not that people get bad when they grow old, but that bad people simply grow old.]

[Look at that movement—she's obviously a habitual offender!]

[Probably wanted to squeeze some money for her children before she died. What a noble mother, dying for justice!]

I should have been devastated.

But knowing Abigail was the one orchestrating this—because in her eyes, the victim wasn't her mother, but mine—killed the grief before it could rise.

Her uncle slapped his thigh in outrage, yelling at me.

"Julian, call Abigail right now. Tell her to send a lawyer's letter, sue those swines immediately!"

I couldn't bring myself to tell him that the "swine" he cursed might very well be his own niece.

Before I could lower the phone, the police station called.

"Mr. Mendez, we're following up about your mother-in-law's case. You said you'd discuss with your wife whether to press charges. Have you reached a decision?"

I wanted to tell them to ask Abigail directly.

But before I could speak, her uncle bellowed into the receiver,

"Of course we're pressing charges! Arrest him immediately! How dare he kill my sister and still smear her online?"

"Excuse me, and you are...?"

"I'm the victim's brother. Her only brother. My words are my niece's words too."

He hung up before they could say more, then grabbed my arm.

"Come with me—we're going to Abigail's firm."

At the law office, her assistant jumped nervously in front of us.

"Mr. Shaw, Mr. Mendez—you can't just barge in like this. The president is in a meeting—"

"Meeting my ass!" he snapped, shoving her aside. "Do you even know who I am? I'm her uncle, and this man is her husband. If you've got eyes, use them—or do you not want this job anymore?"

Without waiting for her reply, he shoved the office door wide open.

Inside, Abigail sat leisurely in her leather chair. And bent over her, propped on the armrest, was Dylan—feeding her cookies from his mouth to hers.

Her uncle froze for half a second. Then he lunged, yanked the boy off her, and began beating him.

"You worthless mutt! Seducing a married woman in broad daylight?"

"Ah! Abby, save me!"

The boy cried as he stumbled back, shielding his head, wailing for Abigail's help.

Uncle Archie's fist hadn't even landed on the boy's face before Abigail caught his arm.

"You—you dare stop me?" he roared.

"Do you even know what time it is right now? At such a critical moment, you're still fooling around with this kind of scandal!"

Abigail shot me a venomous glare, as if I had deliberately staged this scene to expose her.

"Uncle," she said coldly, "this is my private matter. Aren't you stretching your hand a little too far?"

"What... did you just say?"

Uncle Archie froze, stunned. He could never have imagined that his gentle, considerate niece would speak to him like this.

"Fine, fine. It's my fault. I shouldn't have interfered." He turned on his heel and walked away without another word.

I was about to follow him out when Abigail's voice cut through the air.

"Julian! If it weren't for the fact that I'm related to you and therefore unable to stand in court, I would have personally represented Dylan and made sure you lost so badly you'd never recover!"

I paused, then asked the question that had been gnawing at me.

"Abigail, I really don't understand. Why do you treat me like an enemy now?"

She narrowed her eyes, leaned closer until her face was just inches from mine, and whispered, "That slap—you think I'll ever forget it? I'll carry it with me for the rest of my life."

Sighing, I nodded. There was nothing left to say.

Online public opinion only grew more frenzied.

Because of the uproar, the case was fast-tracked to trial—less than half a month later, we were in court.

I didn't hire a lawyer. I sat alone at the plaintiff's table.

From the gallery, Abigail raised her brows at me with a smug, mocking look.

When her relatives entered the courtroom, they whispered to her in confusion.

"Why is your husband sitting up there? Shouldn't you be the one leading the case?"

Abigail gave a dismissive little laugh, answering casually, "The defendant's seat is already taken by my company's lawyer. A firm can't have two of its own lawyers sitting on both the plaintiff and defendant's side."

Her relatives gaped at her in disbelief.

"You—you let one of your employees defend the man who killed your mother? Are you insane?"

She didn't even bother sparing them a glance.

"So what? A lawyer's duty is to stand for justice. Even if it's family—if they've done wrong, they must face the consequences."

Oh, she sounded so righteous.

I couldn't help but sneer silently from where I stood.

'Would she still speak so self-righteously after the trial began?' I wondered.

The judge's gavel struck down, echoing across the chamber.

“I hereby announce the opening of the trial for the Rose Avenue car accident case of August 29th. The deceased: Emilia Shaw—”

“Who are you talking about?”

A loud thud sounded behind me as Abigail shot to her feet, her face pale.