Eleanor rested one hand against the cool glass and allowed herself, at last, to feel something like distance from the worst of it.
Not victory.
Victory was for games and campaigns and men who gave interviews about winning. What she felt was quieter. A reclaimed interior. A room inside herself that no longer echoed with someone else’s interpretation.
The door opened softly behind her.
Martin entered carrying a folder. “I was told you were still here.”
“You were told correctly.”
He placed the folder on the desk. “Final settlement figures. Also, the inquiry into the offshore transfers has widened.”
She turned. “Will it hold?”
“The case? Yes.”
“No,” she said. “The correction.”
Martin followed her gaze toward the boys. Adrian had balanced a giraffe on top of a tower and was insisting this made structural sense. Elias was arguing that no serious city included giraffes in its central planning model.
Martin looked at them for a long moment. “Not by itself,” he said. “Corrections never hold by themselves. People forget. Institutions revert. Men like Julian eventually tell themselves new stories. But the record will hold.”
She exhaled. “Sometimes that feels thin.”