“Wish?” I repeated. The word sounded absurd. As if this were preference rather than air.
Her gaze softened by maybe one degree. “My profession teaches me that not every wronged woman wants a public war. Some want distance. Some want silence. Some want fire. I require clarity only because the strategy changes.”
I thought of my mother laughing in the airport. Tiffany’s text. Brett’s voice calling me a wet blanket. The years of swallowing every insult and translating it into patience so I could stay in the family orbit long enough to receive the occasional crumb.
“I want out,” I said. “And I want anything they tried to build using me to collapse.”
Margaret Higgins nodded. “Good. Then we move quickly.”