Juliana Salazar POV:
I pushed back my chair with a sharp scrape against the floor, the sound echoing in the sudden silence. My body screamed in protest, but I ignored it. I had a final act to perform.
This afternoon, I said, my voice clear and steady, cutting through the heavy air, "I'll be signing the final transfer agreement for my majority shares in InnovateNext. I'm giving them to Debbra. The lawyers have it ready. She will be appointed to the board, effective upon my passing."
Dalton shot up from his seat, the chair clattering behind him. His face was a mask of disbelief, tinged with a raw, almost panicked anger. "Are you out of your mind, Juliana?! InnovateNext? To Debbra? Why not to me?" He ran a hand through his hair, his eyes wild. "That company is your life's work!"
And you, Dalton, are getting everything else, I said, my gaze unwavering. "Debbra has been by my side in the company for years. She knows the operations. It's the logical choice. This way, you can both be secure." I looked out the window, past him, to the sprawling garden where Elwin and Debbra were laughing, chasing butterflies. A vision of domestic bliss I would never be a part of. The sun glinted off Debbra's hair as she playfully dodged Elwin's outstretched hands.
I just want everyone to be happy, I continued, a profound sadness seeping into my voice, despite my efforts to suppress it. My eyes, though dry, felt heavy with unshed tears. "That's all I've ever truly wanted."
A flicker of something unreadable crossed Dalton's face. Confusion? Regret? I couldn't tell. He opened his mouth, then closed it, his shoulders slumping slightly. He looked utterly defeated, lost for words.
I didn't wait for him to respond. I turned, my movements stiff, and walked away, leaving him standing alone in the dining room, the amended prenuptial agreement lying abandoned on the table between us.
I did not look back, but in the gilded mirror of the dining room sideboard, I saw his reflection. He did not touch the papers I had left him. Instead, he sank into a chair, a slow, boneless collapse, and drove his hands into his hair. It was not the posture of a man confused; it was the posture of a man caged. A dying woman’s unaccountable generosity is a more terrifying thing than any threat, and he was only just beginning to feel the bars.
