This was the anger of a woman who had been lied to, stolen from, humiliated, and thrown away. The anger of a woman whose unborn child had been dismissed as not Mr. Sterling's financial concern. This anger did not burn. It froze.

It crystallized. It became a blade. Sarah walked back to the motel. She spread the legal documents on the bed.

She picked up her phone and called Maggie. "Okay," Sarah said. "Teach me everything." The hallway outside courtroom 4B was a cavernous tunnel of polished stone and echoing footsteps.

At 8:45 on a Tuesday morning, it was already busy with lawyers and clerks and the occasional bewildered citizen trying to figure out which room to go to. Sarah sat on a hard wooden bench near the courtroom doors. She wore the navy blue suit she had bought at a consignment shop with part of her father's money. It was clean, tailored, and conservative.

Her hair was pulled back in a low bun. She wore no makeup and no jewelry except her wedding ring, which she kept on because Maggie had told her it humanized her in front of a judge. Her hands were folded over her belly. The baby was quiet this morning as if sensing that today was important and deciding to let its mother concentrate.

Sarah's heart was beating so hard she could feel it in her teeth. She had spent the last four nights on the phone with Maggie until 2:00 in the morning going over every document, rehearsing every question, anticipating every objection Conrad Archer might raise. She had index cards in her folder with bullet points written in neat block letters. She had David Torres's financial summary printed in triplicate.

She had practiced her opening statement in front of the bathroom mirror until her voice stopped shaking. She was as ready as she could be, which was to say she was terrified. The elevator doors at the end of the hall pinged. The sound of confident clicking heels echoed against the stone walls followed by the heavier thud of expensive loafers.

Then the smell hit her. Richard's heavy musk cologne and Jessica's clawing floral perfume, a combination so distinctive it was almost a weapon. Richard walked past without looking at her. He was talking to Conrad Archer about something involving a property in Bellevue, treating the hallway outside his own divorce hearing as if it were just another business meeting.

Conrad walked beside him, briefcase in hand, his suit sharp enough to cut skin. But Jessica stopped. Jessica Vane was wearing a cream-colored pencil skirt and a silk blouse that probably cost more than Sarah's first car. Her hair was blown out.

Her nails were fresh. She was wearing Sarah's grandmother's diamond earrings, and she was glowing with a particular radiance of a woman who believed she had already won. "You actually showed up," Jessica said, loud enough for the other people in the hallway to hear. She put a hand on her hip and tilted her head, the diamonds catching the fluorescent light.

"I thought you would be sleeping off a hangover. Sarah took a slow breath. Leave me alone, Jessica. Or what? Jessica stepped closer, invading Sarah's space. You will cry?

You will beg Richard to take you back? She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, but kept it just loud enough for the nearest people to overhear. He hates you, you know. He talks about how pathetic you were, how boring, how you let yourself go.

She glanced pointedly at Sarah's pregnant belly. Obviously. Sarah stood up. She was not going to sit there and take it.

Not today. She moved to walk toward the courtroom doors to escape the confrontation and preserve what was left of her composure. As Sarah tried to pass, Jessica shifted her weight. It was a subtle movement, practiced and precise.

The kind of thing learned on middle school playgrounds and perfected in corporate boardrooms. She stuck her foot out just an inch, right in Sarah's path. Sarah's toe caught the heel of Jessica's designer shoe. At seven months pregnant, Sarah's center of gravity was already precarious.

The stumble became a fall before she could catch herself. She crashed forward, her arms flailing. Her knees hit the hard stone floor hard. Her belly struck the edge of the wooden bench she had been sitting on.

The pain was immediate and electric, but it was nothing compared to the terror. The baby. Sarah's purse hit the ground and burst open, scattering pins and papers and her carefully organized index cards across the hallway floor. "Oh my god!"

Jessica shrieked, her voice pitched to carry. "She attacked me. Did you see that? She tried to shove me. Richard and Conrad turned around. Richard looked at Sarah on the floor, his 7-months pregnant wife on her hands and knees on a stone hallway clutching her stomach, and his face showed nothing but disgust.

Get up, Sarah. Richard hissed. Stop making a scene. Jesus, you are embarrassing yourself.

She tripped me, Sarah gasped. Her knee was screaming with pain. Her hand was pressed against her belly desperately trying to feel the baby move. Please, baby.

Move. Please. Jessica looked down at her. For a split second, the mask slipped completely.

Jessica's eyes were not the eyes of a 26-year-old intern. They were the eyes of something predatory and ancient. She smiled, a cruel, tight smile that was meant only for Sarah. Then she nudged Sarah's shin with the toe of her shoe, pushing her the way you would push a piece of garbage out of your path.

Stay down, Jessica whispered so low that only Sarah could hear. That is where you belong. Hey, the booming voice came from the courtroom doors. Deputy Miller, the bailiff strode into the hallway.

He was a large man with a shaved head and arms like telephone poles. He took up a significant portion of the hallway simply by existing. What is going on here? Deputy Miller demanded.

Conrad Archer stepped forward with the fluid ease of a man accustomed to controlling narratives. She attacked my client's partner. We were walking to the courtroom and Ms. Sterling lunged at Ms. Vane. She seems unstable.