He relaxed immediately.
That might have been the most insulting part.
He mistook hesitation for negotiation. He believed I was a woman standing on emotion instead of documentation. He kissed my forehead before leaving, as if we had just discussed centerpieces or honeymoon flights, and said, “You’ll come around. You’re too smart not to.”
He was right about one thing.
I was smart.
That weekend, I changed every lock on every door I owned.
Not dramatically. Methodically.
My house first. Then the clinic’s side entrance. Then the administrative office. Then the medication room, the records archive, and the digital keypad system tied to three backup entries Grant only had because I once confused trust with romance. I called my attorney. I contacted my property insurer. I informed my office manager that no one was to allow Grant Holloway into any part of the building without written authorization from me. By Sunday night, every code, key, access card, and emergency contact entry linked to his name had been erased.
I slept better than I had in six months.
Monday morning, at exactly 8:13, Grant arrived at my clinic.
I watched him on the security monitor from my upstairs office, standing at the employee entrance in a navy suit, entering the old code with the distracted confidence of someone who still believed my life opened automatically for him. The keypad flashed red.
