"Sign the papers," Calder said.
He pushed a leather folder across the study table like it belonged to him.
"You think a sheet of paper will buy silence?" I said, and I put a pen down as if I were playing along.
Isaac hovered by the bookcase, phone in hand. He didn't move. He never moved unless someone told him to.
Calder smiled the way men smile before they deliver verdicts. "Five million, confidential advisors, a clause that keeps you out of the press for five years. Walk away. Comfortable life. No scenes."
"Comfortable life," I echoed.
"Sign it and this is over," Calder said. "No one needs to know about our past. No one needs to know what you were—what I did for you."
I put my fingertips on the paper, moved the pen once, twice.
"You can take my name off anything," he offered. "You can take anything off. No courtroom. No headlines. We all move on."
"You're generous," I said, light. I signed the dotted line.
Silence sat in the room like a guest waiting for dessert.
Calder leaned back as if his victory had weight. Isaac's eyes flicked to his phone. He waited for the message to go through, for the transfer to ping, for my silence to be currency.
Then I pulled the page toward me and ripped it.
The paper tore sharply. Calder's grin cracked.
"You couldn't let me leave without a receipt?" I asked.
Calder's jaw
