I folded the paper slowly.

Not because I was afraid my hands would shake—but because if I moved too fast, whatever was holding me together might finally fall apart.

They hadn’t planned her death in a moment of rage.
Not during an argument.
Not in panic.

They planned it the way people plan renovations.
On paper.
With signatures.
With dates.

Clean. Precise. Efficient.

A life reduced to columns and margins.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I didn’t tear the document apart.

I memorized it.

Then I drove.

Straight past the iron Sterling gates, past the lights strung for their holiday gala, past the music and champagne laughter leaking into the night like something obscene. I didn’t slow down. I didn’t look back.

All I could see was Mia.

Her reflection trembled in the rearview mirror—small, pale, her breath shallow but steady now that the car’s heater had done its work. She was asleep, finally. Curled into herself like an animal that had learned the world was not safe.