They Called Me Delusional — Then I Destroyed His Empire in 72 Hours
They called me delusional. They said I was walking into a slaughterhouse without a weapon, that I was committing professional suicide by even attempting what I was about to do.
In the cutthroat world of high-stakes divorce litigation, you simply do not represent yourself against a shark like Jameson Brooks. It is unheard of, borderline insane—especially when he has hired the deadliest lawyer in the city to systematically gut you in front of a judge. Everyone in Department 42 of Superior Court expected a massacre that cold Tuesday morning. They expected Kiana Bell to cry, to crumble under cross-examination, to sign whatever agreement was shoved in front of her with a trembling hand, and then to disappear back into the poverty she came from.
Jameson certainly expected it. He even laughed out loud when I stood up to announce I’d be representing myself—a rich, throaty sound that bounced off the mahogany walls and made the court reporter look up with barely concealed pity.
But my husband forgot one crucial thing in his arrogance, one detail that would prove to be his ultimate downfall: the person who helps build the empire, who stands quietly in the background for years, usually knows exactly where all the bodies are buried.
What happened over the next seventy-two hours didn’t just silence his laughter. It stunned the entire legal system, exposed secrets so dark the judge threatened to have everyone in the room arrested, and dismantled a criminal enterprise that had been operating in plain sight for two decades.
This is the story of the wife who played the fool for ten years—only to checkmate the king in three days.
Day One: The Massacre That Wasn’t
The laughter was not subtle. It was the kind of laugh that belonged to a man who had never lost a single day in his entire privileged life, who genuinely could not conceive of a universe where things didn’t go exactly his way.
Jameson Brooks leaned back in his Italian leather chair—the kind that cost more than most people’s monthly rent—and smoothed the lapel of his $3,000 charcoal suit with the casual confidence of someone who owned the room. He turned to his attorney, Harrison Howard, a man known in legal circles as “the Butcher” because he left nothing behind when he was finished with an opponent, and whispered just loud enough for half the courtroom to hear:
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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