You sign your name while your phone vibrates across the polished conference table.
The screen lights up with Javier’s name, and for one brief second you picture him exactly as he must look in that moment: seated behind a glass desk, expensive watch gleaming, jaw tight with outrage, still convinced that outrage is the same thing as power. Outside the law office, Madrid is cold and bright, the kind of winter morning that makes the city look sharpened. Inside, the papers are already in order, the buyer’s counsel has already countersigned, and the house in La Moraleja is no longer his home in any legal sense that matters.
Your lawyer, Teresa Morales, slides the final page toward you.
“You can answer now,” she says.
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