The contract lands on the table with a sound like a door closing. I stare at it. Twelve pages, crisp white, bound with a silver clip. My father — Dermott Voss, the man who taught me that a handshake means everything — slides it toward me without meeting my eyes. "It's already arranged," he says. The study belongs to the Calloways. Dark wood paneling, a fireplace that hasn't been lit, two suited men standing near the door like furniture that breathes. And Rafe Calloway himself, leaning against the edge of the desk with his arms crossed, watching me the way you watch something you've already purchased. He is the kind of man you notice before you're ready to. Tall, broad across the shoulders in a way that makes the room feel smaller, wearing a charcoal suit that costs more than my car. His jaw is sharp enough to cut glass, and his eyes — dark gray, almost colorless — move to me with an unhurried patience that is somehow worse than anger. He doesn't look like a man who needs to raise his voice. He looks like a man who has never needed to. I pull my gaze back to the contract. Page four. There it is — a single line, blacked out with such thick marker that no light passes through it. One line, in a twelve-page document, and someone decided I shouldn't see it. "What does this say?" I keep my voice even. "Standard language." My father reaches over and covers my hand with his. His grip is gentle at first — then tightens, fingers pressing into my knuckles until I can feel the bones. I try to pull away. He doesn't let me. "Nadia." His voice is quiet. A warning dressed as a name. I look at Rafe. He hasn't moved. He's watching me with that flat, patient calm, and there's nothing in his expression — no apology, no cruelty, no interest. Just waiting. Like this is a formality he agreed to tolerate. I pick up the pen. I sign on the line they've marked with a small yellow flag, and then I sign again on the next page, and the next, and I do not read a single word beyond the one they've hidden from me. When I set the pen down, Rafe finally moves. He reaches into his jacket pocket and sets a single key on the table between us. Brushed silver, no keychain, nothing sentimental about it. "Your home starts now," he says. It's the first thing he's said to me all afternoon. ---