Burn the Marriage, Keep the Crown novel Chapter 227

In the legal circles of the Republic of Valeria, there’s a saying: in Alderburg, you turn to Julia Lawrence; in Northspire, you call on Nestor Leighton.

Lawrence, of course, refers to Julia Lawrence of Alderburg, while the “Leighton” in question is none other than the man standing before her now—Nestor Leighton, Northspire’s most renowned attorney.

Both Julia and Nestor are legends among the new generation of lawyers, undefeated in the courtroom.

Especially Nestor Leighton.

There’s an old joke: if you go up against Leighton—even when you have the law on your side—you’ll still come out battered and bruised.

So, word travels fast. Whenever people hear that Nestor Leighton is representing the other side, they know better than to bother fighting. Whoever doesn’t have him on their team is almost guaranteed to lose.

Director Thomas had mentioned to her before that Penelope planned to take her to court to reclaim the antiques. He’d reassured her, saying as long as Penelope didn’t hire one of the top lawyers, there was absolutely nothing to worry about.

Famous last words.

Not only had Penelope managed to hire a top lawyer—she’d secured the very best.

Serena looked up at the strikingly handsome man before her. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course,” Nestor replied politely, all charm and civility, not an ounce of hostility. It was hard to imagine anyone associating this man with the word “ruthless.”

Serena tipped her chin, locking eyes with him. “With Penelope’s connections, there’s no way she could have convinced you to take this case. So tell me, who actually hired you?”

Nestor offered a diplomatic smile. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that.”

Her tone cooled. “Is it someone I know?”

He hesitated, then said, “You… probably do.”

A name flashed through Serena’s mind, her heart thudding. “Aaron?!”

Nestor’s brow twitched, but he quickly recovered, smiling as if nothing was amiss. “Miss Sullivan, I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose my client’s identity. I’m only here to serve you this notice.”

He drew a court summons from his briefcase and slipped it out with practiced ease.

It was a screenshot from Aaron’s social feed.

Aaron never posted on social media. But today, for the first time, he’d uploaded a photo.

The image showed two hands intertwined—though it was blurry from being screenshotted and forwarded again.

Gabrielle was so furious, her text was nearly incoherent: “Serena, look at these hands. That’s got to be that jerk Aaron and that witch Cynthia, right?”

Serena stared at the photo, unfazed. Compared to Aaron teaming up with Penelope to take her down, this little stunt was nothing.

She replied offhandedly, “How did you get this screenshot?”

After all, Gabrielle ran in London’s social circles and shouldn’t have any connections in Alderburg.

“It was Aaron’s friend, Frederick. He sent it to me,” came the answer.