But she pulled out only a pen. A cheap ballpoint, the kind bought in bulk from an office supply store, the cap slightly chewed at one end. The kind of pen she had always used, because she had never seen the point of expensive pens when cheap ones worked perfectly well.
She set the pen on the table.
“I don’t want your money,” she said, and her voice was quiet and very clear. “And I don’t want the car.”
She opened the folder. She read through the document carefully—not because she expected to find anything unexpected in it; she had her own lawyer review it three days ago—but because she was not a person who signed things without reading them, and that had always been true of her, and nothing about this moment was going to change it. She read it start to finish. Then she picked up the pen and she signed:
Emily Reed Carter.
The sound of the pen against the paper was precise and final, like a door closing on a room you know you will not enter again. She placed the pen beside the folder, squared it neatly, and pushed both across the table.
“It’s done,” she said. “You’re free.”
Ethan smiled with genuine satisfaction. The pleasure of a transaction completed.