The manila folder hits the Calacatta marble island with a heavy, professional thud. Priya keeps her expression a mask of realtor neutral, though the morning sun reflecting off the Belvedere Bay is almost too bright against the stark white walls. Inside, the notarized deed of trust lies open, crisp and waiting.
She leans over the stone, her eyes tracking the elegant, familiar loop of the capital C and the sharp, disciplined cross of the T. It is the signature she has seen on tax returns, school permission slips, and their own mortgage for fourteen years. But the name printed clearly beneath the ink is not Charlie Ainsworth. It reads Charles A. Sterling.
He doesn't have a middle name.
Marisol Vega watches her from across the island, her gaze unblinking and devoid of a buyer’s typical curiosity. Beside her, the second buyer remains a silent, shadowed anchor. The silence in the modernist kitchen stretches, vibrating with the sudden weight of the house’s glass and steel. Marisol’s hand slides across the marble, pushing a second document out from the manila folder.
