You pick it up.
Your hand does not shake. That bothers him immediately. He notices, then smiles harder, as if he can erase the feeling in his own gut by widening his mouth. You lean over the page, and instead of signing, you ask the first question.
“So after this,” you say softly, “the lot belongs to you?”
The notary glances up.
Damián laughs. “Temporarily.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes flash.
Teresa hisses your name under her breath. Verónica rolls her eyes. Mijares shifts in his chair because now there is friction in the room, and friction is bad for dirty paperwork.
Damián leans closer.
“If you say no,” he says, voice dropping into its real shape, “then we do it the other way. You sign the medical recommendation, and by Monday you’ll be somewhere with bars on the windows, your daughter will stay with my family, and your crazy sister’s file will make the whole thing easy.”
That is enough.
You set down the pen.
Then you straighten slowly, look him directly in the eyes for the first time in a week, and say in your own voice, “You always did talk too much when you thought women were trapped.”
The room stops breathing.
Teresa goes pale first. Verónica blinks like a lizard in bad light. Damián stares at you so blankly that for one second he looks more lost than cruel, as if reality itself just changed clothes in front of him.
“What did you say?” he asks.
You push back the chair and stand.
