He slammed his fist lightly on the table.
"No. No, I'm not signing this. You're trying to erase me!"
"Richard," she exhaled, "sign the papers. Then fight for custody in court. I'm not stopping you."
He glared at her, breathing hard — angry, cornered, insulted.
But Lexi didn't flinch.
She wasn't scared of him anymore or afraid to see him leave.
Richard's signature was messy, angry, carved into the paper like he wanted the ink to bleed.
As soon as his pen left the page, he slammed it down, grabbed his coat, and pointed a shaking finger at Lexi.
"You'll regret this," he spat. "You're the one who tore this family apart."
He didn't wait for a response.
The door slammed so violently that the frame rattled.
And then—
Silence.
The kind of silence that settles after a natural disaster, when the dust hasn't yet made up its mind whether to fall or stay suspended in the air.
