He picked up the desk phone and dialed a three-digit number. “Marcus, come to my office. Now.”

Ten minutes later, a tall, gray-haired man in a tailored suit entered the room.

Marcus Vance, Blake’s personal attorney, looked at us with a calm, neutral expression.

“Blake,” Marcus said, nodding to me. “Ms. Winters.”

“I need you to notarize this,” Blake said, pushing the hand-written document across the desk.

Marcus picked up the paper, adjusted his glasses, and read it in silence.

He raised an eyebrow but did not speak.

“Is it legally binding in Illinois?” Blake asked.

“With my stamp and your signature, yes,” Marcus said. “It is ironclad.”

“Do it,” Blake said.

Marcus took a heavy metal seal from his leather briefcase and placed it on the desk.

Blake signed his name at the bottom of the page with a firm, steady hand.

I watched the ink dry on the paper, feeling a weight lift from my shoulders that I had carried for years.

“Now, Emma,” Blake said, sliding the pen toward me. “You sign as the primary custodian.”