He stood, walked around the table, and knelt beside my chair.
“I’m sorry.”
I placed my hand on his shoulder.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then he said, “I don’t know what happens to my marriage now.”
I looked down at him.
“Neither do I.”
He raised his head.
“But I need you to know I’m not asking you to drop the report. And I’m not asking you to give us the properties.”
“Good.”
“I should have understood what those buildings meant before accepting an offer that large.”
I nodded.
“Then you can begin by learning about the business without expecting to inherit it.”
He stood slowly.
“I’d like that.”
Before leaving, he picked up the unopened bag of pastries.
“Should I take these?”
I looked at him.
“No. Leave them.”
He smiled faintly.
“Your favorite almond croissants.”
“I know what you bring when you’ve done something wrong.”
That earned a small, embarrassed laugh.
After he left, I made fresh coffee and ate one.
It was still warm.
Over the following days, Sabrina communicated through her attorney about the police investigation.
Michael told me she’d agreed to cooperate.
The authorities reviewed her admissions, the recording, the household footage, and the medical documentation. The matter remained under investigation; I didn’t pretend that an accusation automatically meant a conviction.
Sabrina sent a written apology.
She acknowledged shaving my head, leaving the card, and trying to prevent me from attending the wedding.
