I pulled it out and saw an email notification from Jerome.

The subject line read: *Draft Settlement Agreement.*

I opened it, scanning the terms we had spent the last week drafting.

It was clean, precise, and devastating to Scott’s remaining assets.

We were going to strip him of every single piece of leverage he thought he had.

I felt a quiet sense of control returning to my life, one paragraph at a time.

The next morning, I arrived at the suburban house to supervise the removal of my remaining furniture.

Two movers in blue uniforms were carrying my grandmother’s dining table down the front steps.

The grass was wet with morning dew.

The air was crisp, carrying the scent of woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney.

A black sedan pulled up to the curb, its engine idling quietly.

A woman in a sharp dark suit got out of the passenger side, carrying a manila envelope.

She walked past the movers, her high heels clicking on the damp concrete.

She stopped when she saw me standing by the front porch.

“Avery Collins?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.