Instead, I opened a different document Raymond had sent earlier that week.
A pre-approval letter.
Not for a mansion. Not for a marble fantasy.
For a modest home I could afford on my own.
The idea of buying a house had always felt like something I’d do “someday,” when everything was stable and safe. But stability and safety were myths now. If I wanted them, I had to build them.
So I did.
I toured small places with hardwood floors and sunlit kitchens. Places that didn’t need to impress anyone. Places that felt like quiet.
A month later, I sat at a closing table and signed my name.
My real name.
With a hand that no longer trembled.
When the title company slid the deed across the table, I stared at it like it was proof of survival.
It wasn’t a mansion.
But it was mine.
Part 7
Cass’s sentencing came on another Tuesday, because life has a cruel sense of symmetry.
This time, the courtroom felt less tense, more resigned. The big drama had already happened. Now it was paperwork and consequences and the judge’s voice reading out a future Cass didn’t want.