“I don’t defend criminals,” I said, adjusting the dark fabric across my shoulders.
“I pass judgment on them.”
But before I could ever speak that judgment aloud, I had to endure the silence.
The West Wing of the White House carried the scent of legacy—aged leather, polished wood, beeswax, and the quiet hum of authority. I stood inside the Oval Office, fingers interlaced behind my back, forcing my hands to stay still.
The President of the United States stood before me, smiling.
“The nation is grateful, Amelia,” he said warmly. “Your record on the federal appellate bench is flawless. The Senate confirmation will be routine. The announcement goes public tomorrow at nine a.m. Please—keep the robe secure.”
He handed me a weighty garment bag stamped with the Presidential Seal.
Inside rested the black silk robe of a Supreme Court Justice.
“Thank you, Mr. President,” I replied, my voice steadier than I felt. “I won’t disappoint.”
I stepped out into the sticky D.C. afternoon and slid the garment bag into an old canvas tote—the same one I used for groceries. To the Secret Service agents, I was just another government employee passing through the gates.
To the world, I was about to become one of the most powerful judges in America.
But to my husband, Ethan, I was still just a forgettable legal assistant who couldn’t even remember the dry cleaning.
My phone vibrated.
Five missed calls.
All from Ethan.
I called him back while flagging a cab.
“Ethan? What’s wrong?”
“Where the hell have you been?” he snapped. “I’ve been calling nonstop. You know I hate voicemail.”
“I was… working,” I said.
He assumed “working” meant filing motions at a mid-level firm.
“Whatever. Meet me at Le Bernardin at seven. Sharp. And try to look expensive for once. Wear the pearls. I have company.”
“Company? It’s Tuesday. I’m exhausted.”
“This is important, Amelia. Bigger than anything your little assistant brain can process. Just show up.”
He hung up.
