A faint smile touched her mouth then. Not warm. Not fragile. Not wounded. It was the kind of smile that made people uneasy because it suggested the speaker had already moved beyond the point where persuasion mattered.
“Not all of it.”
She reached into her bag and withdrew an envelope. It was worn at the edges, sealed with care, as though it had been opened and resealed many times or carried for weeks by someone waiting for the exact right room. She placed it on the table.
The sound it made against the wood was small, but in that silence it felt decisive.
Judge Whitmore extended a hand. The bailiff passed it forward. The judge broke the seal and began to read.
At first his face remained neutral.
Then his eyes moved faster.
Then slower.
Then stopped entirely.
Across the room, Julian shifted for the first time in a way that did not read as theatrical boredom. “What is it?” he asked. “It’s just paperwork.”
Judge Whitmore looked up from the pages. “Mr. Reeves,” he said, voice altered by a note so faint only careful listeners would catch it, “are you aware of whose name the original registration documents for Reeves Dynamics are under?”
Julian gave a short, incredulous laugh. “Mine, obviously.”