Not the brittle kind that wrote thirty-seven rules and demanded silence because silence was easier than shame. Not the cold cruelty that turned your office into a mausoleum. Something hotter. Cleaner. The kind that reminds a man who he used to be before his body failed him and everyone around him started acting as though he had already disappeared.
One of the lawyers clears his throat.
“Mr. Navarro,” he says carefully, “if you’re able to communicate—”
“Get out,” you rasp.
He stops at once.
Mauricio tries to recover. That has always been his gift. Your late sister’s son always knew how to step into the smoothest lie in the room before anyone else realized what it was hiding. He straightens his jacket, smooths his cuffs, and gives a nervous little laugh.
“This isn’t what it looks like,” he says. “The child ran in here, startled you, and Carmen overreacted—”
You slam your hand against the armrest.
The crack of palm on wood silences him better than shouting ever could.
Pain blooms instantly, hot and vicious, but the shock on his face is worth it. He truly believed your body was too weak to answer him now. You can see the panic rising through the polish.
One lawyer steps back.