Cole, desperate to stay in my good graces, offered a very public, groveling apology for ever doubting me. I accepted it politely—not because his words meant anything, but because I no longer carried the burden of other people’s shame.

On the one-year anniversary of the assault, the firm hosted a reopening celebration at a rooftop venue overlooking the skyline. Elena, the nurse who had held my hand in the ICU, came as my personal guest.

Mara, triumphant in a sharp silver suit, raised her champagne flute.

“To erased signatures,” she toasted.

I stood near the glass railing, looking out at the city glowing below. The wind moved through my hair, cool and clean.

“No,” I said softly, raising my own glass. “To the name I finally wrote back onto my own life.”