The envelope sits on my nightstand all afternoon like a bomb.
I try to write. Nothing comes.
I try to nap. My brain just replays the same images: my name on that contract, the line of zeroes, his note in the margin.
*Cheaper than a coffin.*
By early evening, the silence in my room feels like pressure in my ears.
He’s somewhere in the house.
On a call, probably. Or in the gym, methodically beating a bag so he doesn’t beat a man.
I can’t sit with this alone.
Not when he chose it for me.
I grab the envelope and head for his office.
No sneaking.
No half‑measures.
I knock once hard, then push the door open before he finishes saying, “Come in.”
He’s at his desk, in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled, jacket on the back of his chair. The lamplight throws clean lines across his face
