"Because once it's in your account, it belongs to you," I told her. "Whatever you do with it afterward is your decision. You should be the person who makes that decision, not somebody else."
James leaned toward her and whispered something I couldn't hear. He spoke quickly, his jaw tight, and Clare's face changed as she listened. She glanced at him, then back at the document. The new coat, the careful hair, the repeated assurances that she was moving into an exciting new life all seemed to hang around her like costume pieces that no longer fit. For the first time since Thursday, I saw doubt settle visibly behind her eyes.
"It's still my money?" she asked her attorney.
"Yes," he answered. "Under this arrangement, the agreed payment will be made to your account. Your subsequent decisions are yours. I recommend that any substantial business investment be reviewed separately, with independent advice and proper documentation."
James let out a small breath through his nose. "We've already discussed all that."
"Not with me," her attorney said.
The room became very quiet. Clare picked up the pen, read the payment line again, and signed the version with her own name and bank information. James sat back without speaking. I watched his fingers curl around his phone, then relax, then curl again. It was a tiny gesture, almost invisible, but by then I had begun paying attention to tiny gestures. They had told me more than any grand promise.
The rest of the meeting passed without argument. Dana checked that the signatures were complete and the necessary documents exchanged. The funds were to be released in accordance with the agreement through the proper channels, with Clare as the recipient. Nobody declared victory. We stood, collected our folders, and moved toward the elevators with the weary politeness of strangers who had shared too much of one another's time.
Clare walked beside James. I stayed a little behind them, close enough to hear him murmuring about how the lawyers had made an uncomplicated thing unnecessarily difficult. She didn't answer. The elevator came, and we stepped inside together. A man holding a courier bag occupied one corner, staring at the display above the doors as though the numbers could change faster if he watched them closely.
Nine floors down. Eight. Seven. I stared at the scratched metal plate surrounding the buttons and tried not to think about Rachel waiting in the lobby.
James typed on his phone with one hand and kept the other at the small of Clare's back. His thumb moved furiously. I wondered whether he was messaging someone about the transfer, planning another explanation, or simply expressing anger that he couldn't reach the money before Clare did.