There was a pause, the kind that suggests a man sitting up straighter.
“Is there an issue?”
I inhaled slowly. My scalp still burned, a constant reminder. My pride too.
“Yes,” I said. “And tonight, after the reception, I want you at my house. We’re rewriting the entire will.”
Avery didn’t interrupt me with questions, which was one of the reasons I had kept him. He simply said, carefully, “All right. I’ll make myself available.”
When I ended the call, the silence in the room felt different. Not empty, but purposeful, as if my house had taken a breath with me.
I went into my closet and pulled out the navy silk dress I’d bought for myself after closing a thirty-story tower deal downtown. I remembered standing alone in that boutique, the saleswoman fluttering around me as if I needed permission to spend my own money. I remembered the dress sliding over my shoulders like armor. I had bought it not for a gala, not for a man, not for an occasion meant to impress anyone else.
I had bought it because I had won.
Today, I would wear it again for the same reason.
The phone rang on the landline. The sound jolted me, sharp and old-fashioned, like something from a life I had outgrown.
I crossed the room and glanced at the caller ID.
Lucia.
My hair stylist for over twenty years.
My throat tightened in a way that made me almost laugh. Of course. The universe had a sense of timing.
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