Paul Raskin grabbed his arm.

“Ethan, don’t,” Paul whispered. “We can fight this.”

“The board doesn’t have the numbers if we challenge the bylaws,” Paul added.

Ethan looked at Paul, then at the document, and finally at me.

For a brief second, the cold business armor slipped from his face.

I saw the exhaustion underneath, the heavy weight of a decade of regrets.

“If we fight, the papers get the story,” Ethan said quietly.

“We can handle the press,” Paul said.

“Lauren is five years old, Paul,” Ethan said.

“She doesn’t deserve to have her mother’s life dragged through the mud,” Ethan added.

“She doesn’t deserve to have photographers waiting outside her school,” Ethan said.

Vance smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

“A very touching sentiment, Ethan,” Vance said.

“Now sign the paper,” Vance added.

Ethan held the gold pen over the signature line, his hand perfectly steady.

I watched him, my heart pounding against my ribs in the quiet room.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, burying the streets of Chicago in silence.

Ethan’s phone on the table suddenly lit up, the screen glowing bright blue.