I didn’t need to see them to feel their presence. The air smelled of polished floors and expensive restraint—the kind of atmosphere owned by people who had never needed to ask for mercy.
My heels echoed across the marble in a rhythm I’d rehearsed—not to appear confident, but to stay in control. I crossed my arms, not for comfort, but to steady my pulse.
The receptionist offered a practiced smile and directed me down a narrow hallway, as if this were routine business and not unfinished history.
I walked forward anyway. I hadn’t come for reconciliation. I had come to close something that had lingered too long.
And deep down, I knew this would not unfold the way they expected.
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