I turned my head. Grace had fully awakened. Her tiny fists stretched upward, her mouth forming a silent, perfect O. Emma slept soundly beside her, a soft pink cheek pressed against the swaddle.
“They will have an exceptional life,” Daniel promised smoothly, following my gaze. “I can provide them with resources you simply cannot.”
I looked back down at the contract. Ten years. Ten years of my life given to this man. Ten years of bleeding myself dry to help him build Mitchell Construction from a pathetic two-truck hustle into one of the most dominant commercial contractors in eastern Nebraska. I was the one running payroll spreadsheets at two in the morning. I was the one untangling tax forms on our tiny kitchen table, desperately calling subcontractors to apologize when Daniel “forgot” to pay them. I kept the financial scaffolding from collapsing while he schmoozed clients on the back nine.
But standing in that sterile room, Daniel looked at me as if I were a temporary, hourly employee whose contract he had simply chosen not to renew.
My incision throbbed violently. Outside in the hallway, the soft squeak of a nurse’s rubber-soled shoes echoed past the closed door.
“Sign it,” Daniel ordered.
My hand moved before my exhausted brain fully caught up. I picked up the pen. The heavy paper crinkled softly under my wrist. For one terrifying second, the room went dead silent, save for the rhythmic, distant hum of the heart monitor next door.
Then, I signed my name. Carolyn Mitchell.
Daniel let out a long, heavy exhale—the sound of a man who had finally swatted a persistent, annoying fly. “Thank you,” he said briskly. He snatched the legal papers, slid the cashier’s check toward my untouched jello, and turned on his heel. “We will handle the remaining logistics through counsel.”
Lindsay offered me a tight, pitying smile. “Take care of yourself, Carolyn.”
