“Read that section again, sir, because I want to hear exactly how she finally understands her place in all of this,” Brielle Dawson said, her voice slicing cleanly through the quiet notary office with a confidence wrapped in expensive perfume and impatience.
She wore a fitted black dress that clung too tightly for mourning, a delicate veil barely shading her eyes, and deep burgundy nails that gleamed with every movement, as if she had already stepped into the life she believed was hers to claim.
I sat across from her in a simple beige blazer, hands folded neatly on the polished wooden table, choosing not to meet her gaze just yet while I watched the traffic outside rolling through the streets of Maple Ridge, sunlight flashing across windshields as if nothing in my world had collapsed three weeks earlier when my husband died on a highway outside Austin, leaving behind a fractured marriage, a restless lover, and more lies than truth.
Attorney Franklin Hayes, a seasoned notary and longtime acquaintance of my husband’s family, cleared his throat before continuing in a measured tone that tried to maintain professionalism despite the tension thickening the room.