(Yvette POV)
Brent had called me and Joseph for a meeting by the next day.
The room was quieter than it should have been.
Not the kind of quiet that came from emptiness—but the kind that lingered when something important had been waiting far longer than it should have.
We sat across from each other in the small private screening room adjacent to the legal office. The lights were dimmed, the curtains drawn. A single desk lamp cast a warm circle of light over the polished wooden table between us.
On it lay a thin, cream-colored envelope.
My name was written on the front in careful handwriting.
Not printed.
Not typed.
Written.
I didn't need to ask who it was from.
Brent had placed it there earlier, his expression unusually solemn. He had said only one thing before excusing himself.
"This was meant for after the one-year term concluded," he had told me. "Your father was very specific about that."
Father.
The word still felt complicated on my tongue.
