The notary, Mr. Leonard Harris, cleared his throat with practiced calm. He was the only person in the room who seemed untouched by the tension, grounded in the neutrality of his role. When he looked at me, there was no pity in his eyes, only respect shaped by procedure.
“Ms. Rowan,” he said evenly, “thank you for coming.”
“I did not have much choice,” I replied without turning my head, unwilling to feed the hunger behind me.
He shuffled papers with deliberate care, the sound of each page louder than the hum of the air conditioner. “You will understand shortly,” he said, and something in his certainty sent a chill along my arms.
Behind me, Adrian shifted in his seat, impatience radiating like heat. I did not move. Standing was the only way I knew to keep my power from sinking into furniture chosen by people who wanted me smaller.
As Mr. Harris began to read, my mind slipped back to the phone call that started all of this.
It had been nearly midnight when my phone rang in my studio apartment, the city lights outside my window scattered like stars thrown carelessly across the hills. I almost ignored the unfamiliar number, until instinct tightened in my chest.