"You should sign," Camden said as the envelope slid across the coffee table. "Sign what?" I asked. He tapped the corner of the paper with a fingertip, the way someone points at a line on a contract they've read a hundred times. "The settlement. The terms. Divorce," he said. "It's cleaner this way." "Cleaner for whom?" I asked. "For everyone," he said. "For you. For me. For my firm. For your father's company." "You offered me a timeline like I was booking a vacation," I said. "Three months isn't a deadline. It's an expiration date." Camden's face didn't change. He folded his hands as if he were waiting for a client to respond. "You asked for a plan. This is a plan." "I asked for three months," I said. "Not a legal buffer. Three months to live. Three months to decide how I want to be when I die." Silence filled the room like waiting for the elevator to open. "You can't keep jeopardizing everyone because you're scared," he said. "Jeopardizing everyone?" I stood up. "I save people for a living, Camden. I don't 'jeopardize.' I make choices." He pushed the envelope closer. "You should sign," he repeated. I stared at the paper like it was some object from a different life. I thought about the prints Rowan had slammed onto the radiology table this morning. "Look," Rowan had said, and his voice was a hammer. "If you operate, ten