I let the silence stretch until Ethan shifted uncomfortably. Then I picked up the pen.
Lydia exhaled in triumph. Ethan relaxed. The notary prepared his stamp.
I signed a single line.
Not the transfer.
The acknowledgment of receipt.
Then I slid the folder back and said quietly, “Now it’s my turn.”
Lydia blinked. “What did you say?”
I stood, tightening the sash of my robe. “I said it’s my turn.”
Ethan grabbed the folder, flipping through it. “You didn’t sign the transfer.”
“No,” I said. “I signed proof that these documents were presented under pressure, in the presence of a notary you selected, less than twelve hours after our ceremony.”
The notary turned pale. Lydia remained still. People like her confuse silence with weakness because they have never watched a trap close.
“You ungrateful little nobody,” she hissed. “Do you think one clever sentence changes anything?”
“No,” I said. “But evidence helps.”
Ethan laughed harshly. “Evidence of what?”
I picked up my phone and tapped once. His laughter died as his own voice filled the room from the recorder hidden in the table lamp I had switched on earlier.
You’re not built for pressure. Let me take over.