“No,” I said. “I think it’s finally useful.”
He stared at me, trying to decide whether I was in shock or whether I had truly stopped being afraid of him.
He did not understand that I had been preparing for this moment long before he touched my hand to the grill.
For eighteen months, I had documented every insult, every threat, every forged signature, and every unexplained transfer from the company account.
I had not begun because I wanted revenge.
I began because I needed to know whether the life I was living was as wrong as it felt.
Ivan had a way of rewriting every confrontation before it was over.
If he shouted, I had provoked him.
If he threatened me, I had misunderstood.
If money disappeared, I had forgotten what he told me.
If a signature appeared on a document I had never seen, he insisted I must have approved it during one of my busy weeks.
