A lawyer once found himself in a situation so unusual that even his long experience in the courtroom hadn’t prepared him for it. He had fallen in love with a woman whose past sounded more like a complicated legal file than a love story. She had already been married ten times. Friends warned him to be careful. His colleagues joked that he should prepare a legal agreement before the wedding. But he was confident. As a lawyer, he was used to complicated cases, and he believed every story deserved to be heard fairly. So he married her. The wedding was beautiful—full of music, laughter, and curious whispers from guests who knew the bride’s unusual history. “Ten husbands?” some murmured. “We’ll see how long this one lasts,” others joked quietly. The lawyer ignored them all. He believed this marriage would be different. Later that night, after the reception ended and the guests had left, the couple finally found themselves alone. Just as the lawyer stepped closer, his bride gently raised her hand. “Please,” she said softly, “be careful with me. Be gentle. I’m still a virgin.” The lawyer blinked in surprise. “A virgin?” he asked slowly. “But you’ve been married ten times.” She nodded calmly. “Yes, that’s true.” Now deeply curious, the lawyer leaned back and adjusted his glasses. “Well,” he said, “I think that requires some explanation.” His wife sighed slightly, as if she had told this story many times before. “Let me tell you about my previous husbands,” she said. She raised one finger. “My first husband worked in sales. He constantly talked about how wonderful everything was going to be—big promises, impressive descriptions—but somehow nothing ever actually happened.” The lawyer nodded knowingly. “That does happen,” he admitted. She raised a second finger. “My second husband worked in software services. He said he needed time to investigate the problem and promised he’d return with a solution. I’m still waiting for his report.” The lawyer tried not to smile. “Husband number three worked in field services,” she continued. “He tried to get things running, but the system never quite started.” She lifted another finger. “The fourth was a telemarketer. He called often and talked endlessly, but nothing was ever finalized.” “The fifth was an engineer. Very serious man. He insisted he needed several years to design the perfect solution.” “The sixth worked in finance. Nice man, but he kept saying the matter probably wasn’t part of his department.” “The seventh was a marketing expert—great with presentations and strategies, but the project never actually launched.” “The eighth was a psychologist. Every night he just wanted to talk about emotions.” “The ninth was a gynecologist. He only examined things carefully and assured me everything looked perfectly normal.” By now the lawyer was struggling to keep a straight face. “And the tenth husband?” he asked. She smiled. “Ah, number ten was a stamp collector.” The lawyer leaned forward with interest. “And what happened with him?” She sighed wistfully. “I still miss him sometimes.” “Why?” the lawyer asked. “Well,” she said, “he spent all his time admiring rare stamps and discussing how valuable they were. Very passionate man.” The lawyer laughed, shaking his head at the strange series of husbands. Then she looked at him with a playful sparkle in her eyes. “But you,” she said, straightening his collar, “you’re a lawyer.” The lawyer stood proudly. “That’s right.” She smiled even wider. “And from what I’ve heard about lawyers,” she said sweetly, leaning closer to whisper, “this is the first time I’m absolutely sure…” “…that I’m finally going to get screwed in a legal sense.”