After a few minutes, he spoke again, voice softening. “Thanks for coming home. Really.”

I nodded, smiling faintly. “Of course.”

But the words felt hollow, mechanical, like the rest of the performance. I had stepped into the role he expected me to play, while quietly preparing for the one I would need to assume later—the one where I reclaimed control, uncovered the truth, and protected what was mine.

Finally, I stood, pretending to stretch. “I should probably head back soon,” I said lightly. “Meetings don’t stop.”

He nodded, relief faint in his eyes. “Alright. I’ll rest. You go take care of yourself.”

I smiled, collected the bag, and walked toward the door, careful to keep my movements casual, to mask the storm building inside. Every step was deliberate, measured, preparing for the confrontation I knew was inevitable.

As I reached the threshold, I paused, glancing back. His face was calm, unsuspecting. But I knew better.

And I had time.

Time to plan. Time to watch. Time to wait for the moment when the truth could no longer be hidden.

Because I had already heard it.

And now, I would act.

We left the café without speaking much. The sky had turned a cold gray, the kind of late afternoon light that felt heavy against the shoulders. I drove in silence, keeping one hand on the wheel, the other on the folder of documents that suddenly felt like a shield rather than paper.