Chapter 7 - Micro-Realities
By the third week, Elena had traded her beige servant blouses for worn canvas work jackets and steel-toed boots. Her role expanded quickly. She sat across from displaced loggers and single mothers, listening to their housing histories, verifying their papers, and quietly filtering out the predatory contractors who tried to overcharge for subpar electrical conduit.
One afternoon, Julian brought two paper cups of black coffee to her desk. He leaned against the plywood partition, watching her redline a delivery manifest with rapid, accurate pencil strokes.
"You haven't checked your phone all afternoon," he noted, amusement tracing his features.
"Victoria’s lawyers sent three cease-and-desist notices to my old mailing address," she said without looking up. "My cousin forwarded them. They’re claiming I stole an antique lace runner."
Julian chuckled softly, taking a sip from his cup. "Did you?"
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"I wouldn't touch her dust rags with tongs," Elena replied dryly. Then she looked up, meeting his eyes directly. "Thank you, Julian. For the breathing room."
The casual humor faded from Julian’s face. He stepped closer, his boots crunching lightly on the fine layer of sawdust covering the floor. "You did the walking, Elena. I just held the door."
