He listed the credit card balances.

He listed the secondary mortgages on his mother’s suburban home.

He listed the private, high-interest loans he had co-signed for Ryan’s failing business.

The black ink scratched loudly against the paper in the silent room.

I watched the tip of his pen move, feeling a cold, hard knot untie in my chest.

He was writing his own financial ruin, line by line.

Marcus watched him with a neutral, professional expression, but I saw the tight set of his jaw.

“There,” Ethan said, sliding the papers back across the mahogany. “That’s everything. Every single cent.”

Marcus picked up the document, reviewing the signatures and the handwritten lists.

“Looks complete,” Marcus said.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk phone.

“Bring the notary in, please,” Marcus said.

A young woman in a gray suit stepped into the room, carrying a heavy metal seal.

She checked Ethan’s identification, watched him sign the logbook, and stamped the pages with a loud *thump*.

“Now,” Ethan said, turning his gaze back to me. “Where is the bank draft?”

I reached into my leather purse and pulled out the paper.