They met in a quiet office Edison rented for the week—neutral walls, wide windows, and two chairs facing each other across a glass table.
No tea. No soft music. No comforting distractions.
Just the truth.
Stella arrived with a folder thick with screenshots, timestamped emails, Irina's message thread, and photos of burnt canvases.
Andrew brought his legal counsel—but left him outside the door.
He carried a slim leather portfolio. Contracts. Incident logs. Copies of her studio keycard access from the smart home system. A printed copy of her medical discharge summary.
He sat first.
Stella remained standing for a moment, then placed her folder down and sat across from him.
Edison was there, too—silent, present, permission in his posture if she needed to stop.
Andrew opened with a brea
