I entered the notary’s office with my spine straight and my breathing steady, already aware that my past was waiting inside.
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.
