Mr.
Leonard Harris, the notary, cleared his throat. He alone seemed untouched by the tension—neutral, procedural, steady.
“I didn’t have much choice,” I replied without turning.
He shuffled papers carefully. “You’ll understand soon.”
Behind me, Adrian shifted impatiently.
I didn’t move. Standing was the only way I knew to keep my power from sinking into furniture chosen to make me smaller.
As Mr. Harris began reading, my mind drifted back to the call that had brought me here.
It was nearly midnight when my phone rang in my studio apartment.
City lights shimmered beyond the window. I almost ignored the unfamiliar number, until instinct told me not to.
“Ms. Rowan,” the caller said calmly, “this is Leonard Harris.
I’m sorry for the late hour.”
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