Two cursors blinked like poised spears.
One hovered over Lena Hart, her name hanging three inches off her body like a jar label.
The other hovered above Dominic’s sternum, the air there already sketching a single red word:
Husband.
The field held its breath. Even the torn paragraph in the sky paused, as if it too were waiting for a signature.
“Back away from him,” Lena said, throat raw.
The cursor did not move. It blinked.
—If we cannot erase, we bind, the voice murmured from the crease of the world. The draft improves by order.
Dominic shifted his grip, blade laid flat along the invisible page. “If there will be binding,” he said, voice low, “it will be by consent and witnessed.”
He pressed the steel into the page and dragged. A clause opened like a reluctant mouth. White air his
