Raf
“We’d now like to submit a timeline of Ms. Simonetti’s extramarital activities,” Mitchell Garland says, clicking through his slide deck. “For the record, these materials were obtained legally and shared per the confidentiality agreement.”
Raf braces as Jennifer flashes her a quick, steadying look. On the screen: screenshots, phone numbers, explicit texts, timestamps, locations—and then the photos. Some taken by a stranger. Others taken stupidly, intimately by Raf’s own hand. A blurry shot of the beachside restaurant in Venice. Their first and only date. Her back to the camera, Casey’s hands resting on her waist.
Next: her palm on his chest, eyes locked. Then: kissing outside the restaurant. All of it presented as evidence—a visual timeline of the night she’s so desperately tried to forget.
“We understand adultery isn’t disqualifying,” Garland continues, just shy of a smirk. “However, the extent, duration, and public nature of this affair demonstrate a pattern of reckless, deceptive behavior, one that calls into question Ms. Simonetti’s emotional stability and her capacity to provide a consistent environment for her children.”
But it’s the beach house surveillance that cuts deeper—grainy images captured from afar. One shows her screaming. Another, shoving Casey mid-argument. And the final image, the worst: Raf, arm raised, hurling the Murano bowl. Frozen mid-shatter. A portrait of volatility. She’s seen it before. And somehow, it’s worse this time.
Then comes a clip she hasn’t seen—surveillance footage from the parking lot outside her office. No sound, just grainy black-and-white footage of Lili yelling, gesturing, then shoving Raf to the ground. Even uglier than she imagined. Next, the TMZ photos of the same incident. As if security footage wasn’t enough?
“This is not a woman in control,” Garland declares.
But the worst is saved for last: the selfies. Lacy black lingerie. One with the bra off, arm barely covering her chest. Another, flat on her back, chin tilted, lips parted. A mirror shot, half-dressed, the hem of her shirt just high enough to reveal everything.
Garland clicks to the final slide. The TMZ headline glares in tabloid red:
MESSY MISTRESS MELTDOWN: DESIGNER’S DIVORCE TURNS SCANDALOUS!
Beneath it, the familiar sequence, again—Raf with Casey, Raf screaming, Raf shoved to the ground. The selfies, again. Every frame planted. Every moment engineered. All of it gift-wrapped by Alexander—the man who might as well have handed them the flint, then smiled when they struck the match.
This novel is published on a different platform. Support the original author by finding the official source.
“Sadly, this is already in the public sphere,” Garland says, pressing on. “We didn’t put it there. But we’d be negligent not to acknowledge how Ms. Simonetti now appears to the outside world. Her children will one day see this. If they haven’t already.”
When it’s her turn to respond, Jennifer addresses the room with quiet authority: “You’re calling these public, but you’ve just shown us timestamped, high-resolution originals. Those didn’t come from a gossip site. Who provided them?”
“They were subpoenaed from a third party,” Garland replies, his delivery crisp, almost performative. “As for who took them, your guess is as good as mine. LA isn’t known for its discretion. We don’t present these to shame Ms. Simonetti, but to illustrate a troubling lack of judgment, especially for someone raising children under public scrutiny.”
He clicks back to the selfies—Raf’s blurred breasts, her glossed, parted lips—and pauses. The image flickers on the screen too long.
“Don’t react,” Jennifer says under her breath, a hand brushing against Raf’s.
“You can dress it up however you like—self-expression, empowerment, art—but these aren’t the actions of a devoted mother.” Garland’s voice turns almost paternal, feigning disappointment, as if he gave a damn about anything. “They’re the choices of someone more invested in being desired than dependable.”
That’s it. Raf breaks. She surges forward, voice cracking: “You smug bastard! You don’t know the first thing about me, about what I’ve endured raising those kids while their father missed birthdays, school meetings, whole seasons of their lives!”
“Raf,” Jennifer says, trying not to raise her voice.
“No,” she snaps, eyes flashing at Ethan, across the table. “He cheated; he’s spent years trying to control me, control everything. He was never there. And now he wants to rewrite history because it suits him? The kids chose to live with me.”
“Ms. Simonetti, order, please.”
But Raf keeps going, unable to pull herself back from the edge. Her voice cracks again, thinner now, almost pleading.
“He wasn’t there. I did everything! I carried them, raised them, loved them. Alone. I would never endanger my family by knowingly sleeping with a married man. Do you think I’d put myself in that position on purpose? I didn’t know he was married! I was being watched. Manipulated. Set up. This was designed to break me down, to make me look unhinged. But I’m not. I’m not. I know how this sounds, but you have to believe me—”
“Raf.” Jennifer reaches for her arm. “That’s enough.”
“Ms. Simonetti! Please.” Arguello lifts a hand, a quiet warning. “You’ll have time for your full statement. But I need this proceeding to remain orderly.”
Raf drags in a breath like it might hold her together. Her hands are shaking. She doesn’t try to hide it. Across the table, Ethan sits still, hands folded, head bowed, the image of dignified restraint. Garland doesn’t speak. Just leans back, the smirk finally revealing itself.
And that’s when it hits her. They don’t need more evidence. Her outburst sealed it. Between the photos, the headlines, and now this—she just gave them everything.