Paige didn’t sleep that night. The city glared through Eleanor’s floor-to-ceiling windows, a grid of other people’s stories burning against the glass. On the marble counter lay the folder the lawyer had pressed into her hands: deeds, statements, a letter in Eleanor’s shaky script. Paige read it three times before the words settled—“You saw me when they saw assets”—and cried not because she was rich, but because someone had finally named her as more than conven… Continues…
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