They moved to the library because the kitchen felt too open, too transient, for the conversation they were about to have. Aria sat in her usual chair and Lucien sat across from her with a slim folder he had retrieved from his study — she had not known it existed, tucked inside the locked lower drawer of his desk, its existence a measure of how carefully he had held this.
He opened it on the low table between them.
The documents were a mix of legal correspondence, internal memos on company letterhead, and handwritten notes that she recognised, from the style and the slight formality of the handwriting, as belonging to Edmund Blackwood. The folder was perhaps thirty pages. He had carried it for six years.
He did not hand it to her immediately. He picked up the notebook and wrote: I am goi
