The legal clinic opened at nine. I arrived with the banker box, the portfolio files, and Lorna's pattern book wrapped in brown paper. The attorney, Simone Bell, did not tell me everything would be fine. She told me what could be stopped, what needed evidence, and what might take months. We notified the lender of the disputed signatures and requested the original applications. We also photographed every page before sealing the box. Practical steps steadied me more than any promise could have.

Adrian came to the shop. Rosa stood at the front desk while I met him by the fitting mirrors. He said the separation threat had been anger, not a decision. Then he asked for the banker box. I told him it was with counsel. His face changed, not into the monster I once might have needed him to be, but into a frightened man whose shortcuts had reached the end of the hallway. He said the hotel would have secured our future. I asked why our future required erasing my name.

He had no answer that did not become another criticism of my ambition. I listened until he began blaming Lorna for making me suspicious. Then I asked him to leave his shop key on the counter. The building was jointly owned, so I could not pretend the lock settled everything. We agreed through Simone on temporary access hours and an inventory. It felt painfully formal. It also felt safer than another private conversation in which the meaning of every sentence could be revised the next morning.

That evening, I unpicked the dress cuff where the loose thread had started. Lorna's seam was sound; my hurried finishing stitch had caught only one layer. The flaw was mine, but it was repairable. Beneath the hem, I found her tailor's chalk mark, a green L no customer would ever see. I had spent years believing invisible work mattered only if someone else presented it beautifully. I threaded a needle, secured the cuff, and left the chalk mark where it was.