Chapter Fourteen

The ruling was postponed. “Next hearing set for June fifth,” the clerk had said, voice flat as her heels on the tile.

I walked stiffly across the parking lot, clutching the manila folder against my ribs like a shield. Inside were copies of every form I had filled out, every report filed, every official document.

It wasn’t enough.

Another month. Another stretch of half-slept nights and early-morning drop-offs at Stacey’s, juggling court-ordered check-ins, and home inspections like some grotesque circus act. I showed up to every check-in. Smiled for the psychologist. Cleaned the house top to bottom before the home visits.

Denise kept the wheels turning—efficient, clinical, and never one for small talk I’d be billed for. But even she couldn’t make the system move faster.

Another month of holding Sam’s hand through birthday promises I might not be able to keep.

She would be four next week. Four years old. I could hardly believe it. She wanted whales and cupcakes and crayons and magic. I had promised we’d take a ferry out to the islands. Watch for orcas.

I had believed—foolishly—that we’d be free by then.

I kept waiting for a magical attack. Something overt. Obvious. Terrible. Ziya was a powerful psychic—shouldn’t her mysterious, ancient family from India be just as magically gifted?

But there were no lightning bolts. No plague of locusts. No curse sigils burned into the floor. Nothing to chase or fight. Just one delay. Then another. A form misfiled. A name misspelled. One more hoop to jump through.

Instead, it was slow. Mundane. Death by paperwork and polite phone calls.

Some sick part of me almost wished it was magic.

At least then I’d know what I was facing, instead of the grinding, incomprehensible wheels of bureaucracy.

The courthouse had its own kind of tides. And they had dragged me under. The world had continued to move around me.

Ziya had been moved into Elysian Manor. Lovely. Private. Expensive. The kind of place with rose gardens and antique chandeliers and wide polished halls that didn’t echo.

My little house—our little house—was falling apart. The roof leaked in slow, brown stains down the bathroom wall. The old maple Hugh had loved had rooted straight through the cracked water line.

There were so many repairs. Money bled out faster than I could keep up.

I wanted to sleep for a week. A month. A year.

I just needed to get to the car.

I just needed to pick Sam up from Stacey’s.

I just needed to survive one more day.

The thought barely formed before I saw him standing near my Subaru, waiting for me like he had all the time in the world. Impossibly polished. Impossibly calm. The kind of calm that didn’t come from peace, but from power. He looked untouched by the rain, by the day, by any of the human mess I was dragging behind me.

I hadn’t seen Naveen since the original court date last month.

For a single breath, I considered turning around. Pretending I hadn’t seen him. Walking straight back into the courthouse and locking myself in the nearest bathroom stall.

But I couldn’t afford another delay. I couldn’t afford the drama. I couldn’t afford anything. So I kept walking straight for him.

"Ms. Brooks," he said with a smile that looked almost genuine. If you didn’t know what to look for.

“Mr. Shivdasani.” I kept my voice level. “What a surprise.”

“You’ve been tireless,” he said, hands in his pockets, head tilted like he was cataloging me. “Filing. Appealing. Sacrificing. It’s admirable, really. I’m sure my cousin would be… touched.”

He said it like condolence. Like eulogy. As if I was the one clinging to a fantasy.

My grip on the folder tightened until the manila edge bit into my palm.

“Thank you?”

“You’ve proven yourself remarkably devoted,” he continued. “More than anyone could have expected. Truly.” He didn’t move closer—but suddenly the space felt smaller. Like the air itself bent toward him. “But loyalty, has its limits. Does it not?”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Shivdasani. I need to get going.” I kept my voice low and polite, the tone you used with someone who could ruin you, just by noticing you. “I have an… appointment. I can’t be late.”

He didn’t move.

“Please.”

“I worry about you.” His smile deepened, just slightly. "You must stop punishing yourself," he said, as if it pained him to see me struggle.

“I’m not—” I started, but the words dried up in my mouth.

Naveen gave a soft, amused hum. Not cruel. Just... confident. Like he already knew the end of the story, and I was the only one still pretending it might change.

He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a small white envelope. No markings. No seal. He held it out like an afterthought. A courtesy.

I didn’t move. Didn’t speak. If I opened the latter, there would be a check inside. Maybe just a piece of paper with a number on it. A large number.

“You deserve a fresh start,” he said, gentler now. Almost paternal. “You’re still young. Your life doesn’t have to end in someone else’s wreckage.”

The words found the quietest parts of me. The parts that hadn’t had never had a voice.

“There’s enough in there to settle everything,” he added. “Your debts. The roof. Whatever’s broken. Or perhaps something new entirely. A city you’ve always wanted. A name no one’s heard before.”

His voice dropped lower. “A life where no one asks who you lost. Or why.”

The idea of escape glimmered sharp and treacherous. Just beyond my reach.

“One call,” he said. “And the funds will be waiting by the time you reach your front door. No more courtrooms. No more check-ins. No more enduring a system that was never meant to lift you.”

I swallowed hard against the ache rising in my throat. My hands curled tighter in my lap, nails pressing half-moons into the fabric of my skirt.

He smiled faintly. Not smug. Not triumphant. Kind. Almost heartbreakingly kind.

"And Sam?" I asked, the words scraping out like sandpaper. “What happens to her?”

“Samara will be cherished,” he said. “Protected. Raised among family. She won’t remember this struggle. Your endless grief.”

"And if I don't?" I asked quietly.

“Take it,” he said. “This is a final offering. Before things become complicated.”

The envelope wavered between us, still politely offered, still pristine.

Because the worst part wasn’t the threat. It was the truth buried inside it.

He wasn’t promising violence.

He was promising obliteration—slow, grinding, polite—the kind no one could name or stop once it began.

"I'll think about it," I said, voice tight, brittle.

His smile returned, full and hollow.

“Don’t wait too long,” he said, smoothing the envelope on the hood. “Some choices, if left unattended, make themselves.”

He placed the envelope on the hood of my car, smoothing it down with two careful fingers. Then he turned and walked away.

I plucked the envelope up, hands trembling, and stuffed it deep into the folds of my case file. Not because I meant to take it. Because I didn’t want anyone else to see it.

I climbed into my Subaru, slammed the door harder than necessary, and sat there for a long moment, forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

Don't take too long.

As if I had time.

As if it mattered what I wanted. Not anymore.