He stared at the desk as though the papers might rearrange themselves if he looked hard enough.

First the divorce petition. Then the bank statements, each tab a neat little incision. Then the copied pages from Thomas’s notebook. I watched his expression change in layers—annoyance, disbelief, calculation, and finally that brief, ugly flicker of fear men like Silas spend their whole lives learning to hide.

His phone kept vibrating in his hand.

Brittany.

Again.

Then the CFO.

Then a board member.

He declined all three calls without taking his eyes off the forensic report.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, but his voice had already changed. Softer. Tighter. No longer a command. A diagnosis.

I took another sip of coffee. “You told me to spend the night in the guest room. I finally had some uninterrupted time.”

He looked up sharply when he heard that. Not because the line was clever. Because he understood, all at once, that I was no longer asking to be treated fairly. I was documenting what he had already done.

Then he saw the ring.

Really saw it.

His gaze locked on the emerald on my hand, and something in his face gave way.

“That was in the safe,” he said.

“Yes,” I answered. “Funny where lost things turn up.”

He took one step toward me, then stopped when he noticed the envelope beside my bag. The one addressed to Morrison Industries’ outside counsel. Under it was a second envelope for Margaret Winters. Under that, a third with Brittany Hail’s name written across the front in my cleanest script.

He swallowed.

The phone rang again.

This time he glanced at the screen, and whatever he saw there emptied the rest of the confidence from his face.

Because before he could speak, before he could start lying, before he could decide whether to beg or threaten, the doorknob turned behind him and heels clicked once on the marble floor…

ρaɾT 2 and fᴜƖƖ ending : Tyρe ” yes ” ɑnd ρɾess ” lιke ” so we cɑn posT fᴜƖƖ sTory. TҺɑnк you !