It was printed, not notarized. The signature was messy—mine forged badly, like someone had traced it from an old birthday card. The dates were wrong. The address wasn’t even formatted properly.
It wasn’t just fake.
It was insulting.
I looked at Karen Bennett again, waiting for some flicker of shame.
There was none.
They truly believed they could rewrite reality if they spoke loudly enough.
My stomach tightened—not with fear, but with something colder:
Clarity.
Because I wasn’t dealing with a misunderstanding.
I was dealing with a plan.
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