And in that clarity, I realized something fundamental. For the first time since the first bank alert, the first suspicious email, the first whispered call from Ethan—I was safe. Not in comfort, not in peace—but in preparedness.

And that preparedness, I knew, was the only thing that would keep Friday from ever being his.

Ethan’s jaw tightened, and for a brief moment, I thought he might argue, push, or even try to storm past the deputy. But he didn’t. Instead, he froze, his hands flexing at his sides, eyes flicking between me, the deputy, and the locksmith adjusting their tools. His control—the one he had exercised for months—was gone. Stripped away by paperwork, by law, by preparation.

I stepped forward slowly, keeping my movements deliberate and calm. “Ethan,” I said evenly, “you promised Friday. You tried to take everything. Now it’s being handled properly. You need to leave, at least for now.”