His expression changed.
Slightly.
Almost imperceptible.
But I saw it.
Fear.
Because what he seemed to forget… It’s that for ten years I handled every paper that came in and out of this house.
I knew exactly where each contract was.
Every transfer.
Each signature.
And there was something he didn’t know.
Something he signed years ago, when he still said that I was “his best decision”.
Something that, if we decided to divide everything equally…
I wouldn’t exactly leave him at an advantage.
That night he slept peacefully.
Not me.
I got up quietly, opened the safe in the studio and took out a blue folder that I hadn’t touched in a long time.
I opened it.
I reread the clause.
And for the first time in ten years…
I smiled.
Because if he wanted to split the accounts…
Maybe he was about to divide a lot more than he imagined.
The next morning I prepared breakfast as usual.
Unsweetened coffee. Toasted bread barely browned. He played exactly how he liked it.
Ten years teach routines that the body repeats even when the heart no longer wants to.
He came down with that new, almost arrogant confidence.
“I was thinking,” he said as he checked his cell phone. We can make a formal document. To make it clear about the fifties.
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