I shook my head slightly, thinking of his expression—shock, panic, the first cracks in his composure. “Not yet. Not until I have full control of the narrative. Until every transfer, every attempt, every move he’s planning is documented.”

Her eyes softened, but didn’t lose their sharpness. “Good. You’re moving strategically. Not emotionally. That’s rare.”

I let the compliment settle without responding. There was no room for sentiment now. Sentiment was the tool he had relied on for months, the mechanism he used to lull me into compliance. That phase was over.

By the time we pulled into my friend’s garage—a secure location I had arranged in case I needed a fallback—I felt a subtle shift in my posture. My shoulders, once tense, now sat squarely, grounded. Every instinct honed to precision. Every move calculated, documented, safeguarded.