The drive was returned.
My penthouse security was upgraded.
And one afternoon, I received a letter from Brianna, apologetic in tone, defensive in places, but honest enough to matter.
I didn’t respond. Forgiveness isn’t access. It’s distance without hatred.
On a quiet evening, I stood by my window, city lights humming below, and watched the reflection of a woman who no longer needed to disappear to survive.
Silence, I’d learned, isn’t weakness.
It’s power—until you choose to speak.
And when you do, the truth tends to arrive exactly on time.
