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The day the title correction came through, I'd taken a half-day off.

The clerk at the Land Registry Office handed me the new certificate.

I turned to the first page.

Legal proprietor: Stella Fairfax.

I stared at those three words for a full minute.

Like looking at myself again after a long time.

I walked out into bright sun.

Sadie took a photo of me holding the certificate up.

She posted it for me with one line:

The day they wrote my name back, I understood: confidence isn't given to you. It's something you take back.

The comments erupted.

Congratulations. People calling Conrad every name in the book. Someone calling me fierce.

I scrolled through them and felt something I hadn't expected: the looks that had weighed on me for months — the whispers, the pity, the subtle implication that I'd failed somehow — they'd lost their weight.

You stay afraid of shame only as long as you let them hold it over you.

Take it back, and there's nothing left to threaten you with.

Conrad called, once, weeks later.

His business had collapsed. His reputation was gone. The criminal investigation had opened. He sounded like someone who'd aged ten years overnight.

"Stella."

I felt nothing when I heard his voice.

"Say what you need to say."

"I wanted to see you. Just once. To apologise properly."

"Your apology has no value to me."

A long silence.

"You weren't like this before."

"I know. I was easy to take advantage of before."

"I regret it."

"Regret what? That you didn't deceive me well enough? That you didn't tie me down before I noticed?"

"Stella—"

"Conrad." I let him hear the plainness in it. "Do you know where you failed?"

He said nothing.

"You didn't lose me. You turned the person who would have gone through anything with you into the person who thinks the least of you. You did that yourself."

The line went silent.

I didn't wait. I ended the call. Blocked the number.

Some people don't deserve a second appearance in your life.