You sit in the leather chair outside the notary’s office with your hands folded so tightly in your lap that your knuckles ache.
The building on Presidente Masaryk is all polished stone, tinted glass, and quiet money. A receptionist in a cream blouse glides past carrying a silver tray with coffee cups no one touches. Across from you, Valeria sits in a fitted black dress, ankles crossed, face composed in that way wealthy women practice in mirrors until grief becomes an accessory.
No one looking at her would guess what she whispered at the funeral.
No one looking at you would guess how close you came to slapping her across the face.
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