“You’re going to sign this,” he said.
I looked down. The documents would give him access to my inheritance accounts and allow him to sell the rental property my father had spent twenty years paying off.
Quietly, I said, “No.”
His expression darkened.
For years, Adrian had trained me to shrink myself—to speak softly, to apologize first, to accept blame just to keep peace. When he raised his voice, I froze. When he insulted me, I swallowed it. When he left, I blamed myself.
But that night, grief had burned something inside me clean.
He grabbed my hair and jerked my head back.
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