She read. She became Judge Vance. She didn’t act mature; she didn’t lean into tremulous wisdom or weary gravitas. She was simply a woman who had seen things, who had made decisions that ruined and saved lives, and who was too busy for anyone’s bullshit.

No mature . Just strong .

Amanda parked her ten-year-old Honda in the garage beneath the casting office. She wore a navy blazer, a silk shell, and the pearl studs her mother had given her when she turned thirty. She’d practiced the sides seventeen times. She knew the judge’s motivations, her secret fondness for bad coffee, the way she’d tighten her jaw when she smelled a lie.