The office was quieter than the lake house had been.
Not naturally quiet—engineered quiet. Soundproofed walls, thick carpet, frosted glass that diffused the city into abstraction. No family photos. No diplomas displayed for intimidation. Just a polished desk, two leather chairs, and a discreet clock whose second hand made no audible claim to time.
Evelyn rested the pen against her index finger and watched it balance.
Across from her, Ms. Kessler folded her hands. “Once we file, there’s no informal phase,” she said. “No exploratory separation. It moves directly into formal dissolution.”
“I understand.”
“Service can be delayed up to seventy-two hours if you prefer discretion, but the court timestamp will exist immediately.”
“Timestamp is fine.”
Kessler’s gaze sharpened slightly. “You’
