The next morning dawned with messages from the board—progress to report, drafts to redline. The foundation’s rollout date edged closer. Conley needed allies for image and impact; Angel needed to map her place beyond nostalgia; I needed to secure my position with the precision that had kept me at his side.
We moved through the week like an orchestra on the brink of crescendo. Conley flitted between courtrooms and charity meetings, pausing to hold my hand in public or to press a chaste kiss to Angel’s brow in a moment that felt painfully ordinary. People saw gesture and concluded stability. Only a few fingers on the inside of this house felt the shredding.
It was in one of those shredded moments that I understood what I had to do. There is a particular mercilessness to survival in a place
