Updated Feb 18, 2026 • ~8 min read
The deposition is worse than Harlow imagined.
She’s under oath. On the record. Sitting across from Roman while a court reporter types every word she says.
Every mistake she makes is permanent.
“Ms. Hartford, let’s discuss your fidelity during the marriage,” Roman says.
Harlow blinks. “My fidelity?”
“Yes. Were you faithful to Mr. Hartford throughout your marriage?”
“Of course I was. He’s the one who cheated—”
“Please just answer the question. Yes or no.”
“Yes.”
“You never had an emotional or physical affair?”
“No.”
“Never kissed another man while married?”
“No.”
“Never had inappropriate conversations with another man?”
“Define inappropriate,” Harlow snaps.
Roman’s expression doesn’t change. “Romantic or sexual in nature. Conversations that would constitute emotional infidelity.”
“No. I was faithful. Unlike my husband.”
“We’ll get to that.” Roman makes a note. “You mentioned in your petition that Mr. Hartford had multiple affairs. Can you name the individuals?”
Harlow’s jaw tightens. “His assistant. Some woman from his gym. I don’t know the third one’s name.”
“You don’t know?”
“He didn’t exactly introduce us.”
“But you’re certain there was a third affair?”
“I saw the messages.”
“Can you produce those messages?”
Harlow’s stomach drops.
Because she can’t. Miles deleted everything. Changed his passwords. Covered his tracks perfectly.
“He deleted them,” she says.
“So you have no proof of this alleged third affair?”
“It’s not alleged—I saw them—”
“But you can’t prove it. You have no screenshots, no saved messages, no evidence beyond your own testimony.” Roman’s voice is calm. Reasonable. Devastating. “Is it possible you misinterpreted what you saw?”
“I didn’t misinterpret him sleeping with his assistant. In our bed. I caught them.”
“According to Mr. Hartford’s testimony, that was a one-time mistake. A lapse in judgment he deeply regrets.”
Harlow wants to scream.
“A one-time mistake?” she repeats. “I found emails dating back six months—”
“Can you produce those emails?”
“He deleted them!”
“So again, we have no proof. Just your word against his.”
This is impossible. He’s making her sound paranoid. Irrational. Like she’s inventing affairs to justify filing for divorce.
Mira intervenes. “My client’s testimony is evidence—”
“Testimony without corroboration is unreliable.” Roman looks at Harlow. “Ms. Hartford, is it possible you filed for divorce not because of infidelity, but because you were unhappy with the marriage’s financial dynamics?”
“What?”
“You stated earlier that Mr. Hartford controlled the finances. Made significantly more money. Purchased assets in his name.” Roman leans forward slightly. “Is it possible you resented his success? Wanted access to his wealth? And fabricated infidelity claims to justify taking half?”
Harlow feels like she’s been punched.
“I didn’t fabricate anything—”
“But you can’t prove the affairs beyond the one instance Mr. Hartford already admitted to and apologized for.”
“I know what I saw—”
“What you think you saw. What you interpreted as evidence. But without proof, Ms. Hartford, we’re left wondering if this divorce is about betrayal or about money.”
“He cheated on me!”
Her voice cracks. Breaks. Too loud in the small deposition room.
The court reporter keeps typing.
And Roman just looks at her with those dark eyes and that professional expression and says, “I understand you’re emotional about this. But the evidence—or lack thereof—speaks for itself.”
Emotional.
He just called her emotional.
Like her anger is hysterical. Like her pain is theatrical. Like she’s too irrational to be trusted.
Harlow’s eyes burn.
No. She’s not crying. Not here. Not in front of him.
“Let’s move on,” Roman says. “Can you walk me through your expenses from the past year? Starting with January…”
He proceeds to grill her about every purchase. Every coffee. Every grocery bill. Every time she used Miles’s credit card.
Making her justify why she spent twenty dollars at Target. Why she bought premium gas instead of regular. Why she got takeout three times in one week.
Like she’s on trial for being human.
By the time the deposition ends, Harlow is shaking.
Not with anger.
With humiliation.
She stood there—under oath, on the record—and Roman Castellanos made her sound like a liar. A gold-digger. An irrational, emotional woman who can’t be trusted.
Mira is furious. “That was out of line. I’m filing a motion—”
“I need a minute,” Harlow interrupts.
“Harlow—”
“Just. A minute.”
She walks out of the deposition room. Past the courthouse security. Down the hallway to the third-floor bathroom.
The one nobody uses because it’s tucked away in the corner. Dark. Old. But private.
Harlow locks herself in a stall.
And breaks.
She cries silently. Fists pressed against her mouth. Shoulders shaking.
Because it doesn’t matter that she’s telling the truth. It doesn’t matter that Miles destroyed their marriage. It doesn’t matter that she did nothing wrong.
Roman made her look guilty anyway.
And the worst part? Some small, traitorous part of her understands why he’s so successful. He’s brilliant. Strategic. He knows exactly how to twist words, cast doubt, make credible people look unreliable.
If she weren’t on the receiving end, she’d be impressed.
Instead, she’s destroyed.
The bathroom door opens.
Harlow freezes. Tries to quiet her breathing.
Footsteps. Men’s shoes.
Wait. Men’s shoes?
“Sorry—wrong bathroom—”
Roman’s voice.
Harlow’s heart stops.
“Or not.” A pause. “I saw you come in here. I—” He stops. “Are you okay?”
Harlow doesn’t answer.
Can’t answer.
“That was a stupid question,” Roman continues. “Of course you’re not okay. I just made you cry on the record.”
Silence.
“I’m not good at this,” he says. “The human part. I’m good at the lawyer part. Too good, probably. But the—” He stops again. “Can you come out? Please?”
“No,” Harlow manages. Her voice is wrecked.
“Okay. That’s… okay.” He sounds uncertain. Lost. “I’ll just. I’ll leave these tissues here. By the sink. In case you need them.”
“I don’t need your tissues.”
“Right. Of course. I just thought—”
“Go away.”
“Harlow—”
“I said go away!” Her voice echoes in the bathroom. Too loud. Too broken.
Silence.
Then: “I’m sorry. For what it’s worth. I’m sorry.”
Footsteps. Retreating.
The door closes.
And Harlow sits in the stall, crying harder now because Roman Castellanos just apologized to her in a courthouse bathroom and she doesn’t know what to do with that.
He’s her enemy. He just destroyed her on the record. Questioned her credibility, her motives, her version of events.
But he followed her to a bathroom. Brought tissues. Apologized.
Like he cares.
Except he can’t care. He works for Miles. He’s being paid to destroy her.
This is a tactic. Some kind of psychological warfare. Make her doubt herself. Make her think he’s on her side so she lets her guard down.
It has to be.
Because the alternative—that Roman genuinely feels bad about what he’s doing—is too complicated. Too dangerous.
Harlow stays in the stall until her eyes stop burning. Until her hands stop shaking.
Then she comes out.
The tissues are by the sink. Exactly where he said.
She stares at them.
Hates that she picks them up. Hates that she uses them. Hates that some part of her is softening toward the man who’s trying to ruin her life.
She cleans up her face. Fixes her makeup. Makes herself look like someone who wasn’t just sobbing alone in a courthouse bathroom.
When she emerges, the hallway is empty.
Roman is gone.
But Harlow can still feel his presence. Still hear his voice saying I’m sorry like he meant it.
And she’s so, so screwed.
Because she’s starting to think Roman Castellanos isn’t just her enemy.
He’s something much more dangerous.
He’s human.
That night, Harlow can’t stop thinking about the deposition.
She lies in her depressing studio apartment, staring at the water-stained ceiling, replaying every word.
Every question designed to make her look bad.
Every answer that sounded defensive even though she was telling the truth.
Every moment Roman looked at her with those dark eyes and systematically destroyed her credibility.
She should hate him.
She does hate him.
But she also can’t stop remembering the way he said I’m sorry in the bathroom. The way his voice changed. Softened. Became something other than professional.
Like he wasn’t Roman Castellanos, divorce attorney.
Just Roman. A man who regretted hurting someone.
Harlow grabs her phone. Opens Instagram.
She doesn’t know why. It’s stupid. Self-destructive.
But she finds his profile anyway.
It’s mostly professional. Photos from legal conferences. Courthouse steps. Team wins. The kind of carefully curated content that says successful lawyer without revealing anything personal.
Except.
One photo from two years ago. Roman with an older woman. Same dark eyes. His arm around her shoulders. The caption: Birthday dinner with the best person I know. Love you, mamá.
He smiles differently in that photo. Genuine. Unguarded.
Harlow stares at it longer than she should.
Then she closes Instagram. Throws her phone across the room.
What is she doing? Stalking her ex’s lawyer on social media like some lovesick teenager?
This is insane.
He’s destroying her in court. Professionally. Methodically. That’s his job.
The apologies don’t change that. The tissues don’t change that. The look in his eyes doesn’t change that.
She needs to remember: Roman Castellanos is the enemy.
No matter how human he seems when he apologizes in courthouse bathrooms.
No matter how attractive he is when he’s not eviscerating her testimony.
No matter how much she wishes things were different.
He’s working for Miles.
And that makes him the enemy.
She just needs to convince her traitorous heart of that.
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