He looked at me, perhaps searching for some remnant of the woman who had agreed to marry him five years ago.

I met his gaze and felt absolutely nothing.

“Give me the pen,” Grant said.

Daniel handed him the heavy black fountain pen.

Grant’s hand shook so violently that the first stroke of his signature was a jagged, blue line.

He pressed harder, his jaw tight, signing his name on the three separate signature lines.

Lena reached across the table and took the papers back before the ink was fully dry.

She checked each page, then slid them into her leather briefcase.

“It is done,” Lena said.

The heavy brass door handle of the boardroom clicked.

The door opened, and two men in dark suits stepped inside.

One of them carried a leather folder, while the other kept his hands clasped in front of his waist.

“Grant Mercer?” the first man asked.

Grant did not stand up immediately. He looked at his hands, then slowly pushed himself out of the chair.

“Yes,” Grant said.

The second marshal stepped forward, reaching behind his back for the silver handcuffs.