My hand went to my collarbone, my fingers tracing the hard edge of the bone as I watched him read.
“It says here that the physical therapy has not resolved the thoracic strain,” Gerald said, his voice flat.
“Because physical therapy cannot change my skeletal structure,” I said.
He laid the letter down on the table, smoothing the crease with his thumb.
“If this is truly what you need, Lyla, I will support it,” he said, though his tone remained entirely devoid of warmth. “But I will need to review the financial statements myself before we make any deposit.”
He closed his laptop with a soft click and picked up his phone, his index finger immediately tapping the screen.
I stood by the counter, staring at the joint bank statement that still lay on the corner of the table.
His sudden agreement did not feel like a relief. It felt like a transaction, a line item he had cleared in some ledger of his own, and I could not shake the feeling that he was already calculating the cost of my freedom.
