That afternoon, I took a cab to midtown.

Victoria Sterling's office sat on the forty-third floor of a glass tower. No name on the door. Just a number. That was how she worked. Quiet. Sharp. Expensive.

I stepped inside. The receptionist nodded and waved me through.

Victoria stood by the window, her back to me. She wore a charcoal suit. Her hair was pulled tight. When she turned, her eyes were calm. Steady.

"Daphne."

"Victoria."

She gestured to the chair across from her desk. I sat. She didn't waste time.

She opened a folder. Slid it across the polished wood.

"Marcus delivered the latest batch this morning," she said. "Hotel receipts. Chloe Bennett. Two other women. All timestamped. All cross-referenced with his credit card statements."

I flipped through the pages. Each receipt was highlighted. Each date matched a night Roman told me he was working late.

Victoria tapped another document.

"The embezzlement trail is cleaner now. Wire transfers from his company account to a shell in Delaware. Then out to three separate accounts. We traced two of them. Both offshore. Both under aliases he controls."

I studied the numbers. They were large. Larger than I expected.

"He's been stealing for two years," I said.

"At least."

She pulled out another sheet. A witness statement. Typed. Signed. Notarized.

"One of his former assistants," Victoria said. "She left the company six months ago. She's willing to testify that Roman instructed her to falsify expense reports and backdate contracts. She kept copies."

I read the statement twice. Every line was clear. Direct. Damning.

Victoria leaned back in her chair. Her fingers steepled.

"We're close," she said. "We need two more clean financial records. Originals, if possible. Then we file."

I nodded slowly.

Roman was leaving for Boston next week. A three-day conference. He always left his home office unlocked when he traveled. He thought I never went in there.

He was wrong.

"I can get them," I said.

Victoria's mouth curved. Not quite a smile. Just acknowledgment.

"Good. Once we have those, we move fast. Divorce petition. Asset freeze. Criminal referral. All at once. He won't have time to react."

She closed the folder and slid it back to her side of the desk.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

I met her eyes.

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything."

She studied me for a long moment. Then she nodded.

"Call me when you have the documents."

I stood. Shook her hand. Left.

In the elevator, I watched the numbers descend. Forty-three. Thirty-seven. Twenty-one.

My reflection stared back at me in the polished steel doors.

I looked calm. Steady.

I felt like a countdown clock.

---

That night, Marcus Thorne's email arrived at 11:47 p.m.

The subject line was blank. The body of the email had one sentence.

*Final report. Encrypted. Password: Mocha2024.*

I sat at the kitchen table. Mocha was curled at my feet, her warm weight pressed against my ankle.

I typed the password. The file opened.

Three hundred pages.

I scrolled slowly.

Chat logs. Screenshots. Timestamps. Financial payments sent to accounts under fake names. Receipts for hotel rooms. Plane tickets. Gifts.

And then I saw the witness statements.

Three of them.

Young women. Teenagers when it started. Adults now. Each one had come forward independently. Each one told the same story.

Roman had paid them. Manipulated them. Threatened them.

My hand stilled on the trackpad.

For a moment, I couldn't move.

Mocha shifted. She lifted her head and looked at me.

I breathed in. Held it. Let it out.

Then I kept reading.

Every page was documented. Every claim was backed by evidence. Phone records. Bank transfers. Text messages recovered from cloud backups.

Marcus had been thorough. Relentless.

When I reached the last page, I sat back.

The apartment was silent. Down the hall, Roman was asleep. He had no idea.

I opened my phone. Took a photo of each document. Uploaded every single one to the encrypted folder I had built over the last six months.

Then I opened a new email to Victoria Sterling.

I attached the full package.

I typed one line.

*That's everything. We're ready.*

I hit send.

The email disappeared.

I closed my laptop. Set my phone on the table.

Mocha stretched and yawned. I reached down and scratched behind her ears.

"Almost done," I whispered.

She wagged her tail once. Twice.

I sat there in the dark.

I didn't feel angry. I didn't feel sad.

I felt steady.

Like a woman standing on solid ground, watching a storm she built herself finally roll in.

Roman had no idea what was coming.

But I did.

And I was ready.

My phone rang while I was making coffee.

Nathan.

I answered on the second ring. "Hey."

"Hey, you." His voice was warm and easy. It wrapped around me like a blanket. "I've got a free Saturday. There's a trail above the Hudson Valley. Long climb. Great view. Nobody around."

"Sounds like our kind of place."

"That's the idea." I could hear him smiling. "Check your phone."

My screen lit up with a new message.

A photo. Nathan, in a dim home gym, shirtless. Sweat on his chest. Abs like carved stone. His hair was wet, and he was grinning into the mirror like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Under it: *Getting in shape for our next adventure. You in?*

I laughed out loud. My cheeks went hot.

"Well?" he said. "Say something."

"I'm saying you're a menace."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes."

I saved the photo. Of course I did.

Mocha was already at the door, tail wagging, leash in her mouth. I hung up, grabbed my keys, and left my phone face-up on the counter.

I didn't think about it.

That was my first mistake.

---

The park was quiet and cold. Mocha sniffed every tree like it owed her money. I walked slowly and let my head clear.

Forty minutes later, I opened the apartment door.

The first thing I heard was nothing.

Then I saw the bedroom.

My closet was gutted. Dresses on the floor. Shoes thrown against the wall. A vase lay shattered across the rug, water soaking into the carpet. Our wedding photo had been ripped off its nail. The frame was cracked. The glass was a spiderweb.

Roman stood in the middle of it all. His shirt was untucked. His chest rose and fell like he had run a mile.

He held up my phone.

"Who the *fuck* is this?"

Nathan's abs glowed on the screen.

Mocha pressed against my leg. I rested my hand on her head.

"You think you can whore around behind my back?" Roman shouted. Spit flew from his mouth. "In my house? On my money?"

I looked at the broken vase. The torn dresses. The wedding photo, face-down in the glass.

I didn't feel fear.

I felt tired.

"You sent me a sex tape on our anniversary, Roman," I said evenly.

"That's not—"

"You gave me your mistress's dirty lingerie. You put her on our couch, with her feet in your lap." I stepped over a heel. "And you're screaming at me over a shirtless photo from a friend?"

"A *friend*?" He laughed, high and ugly. "Don't insult me."

"Then don't act like I owe you anything."

He crossed the room in three strides. His fingers clamped around my wrist.

Hard.

Mocha growled.

I didn't scream. I didn't pull right away. I looked at his hand, then up at his face.

"Let go," I said quietly.

"Or what?"

I held his eyes. I didn't blink. I let the silence stretch until it was thick enough to choke on.

Something flickered across his face. Doubt, maybe.

His grip loosened.

I twisted my wrist free. A red mark was already blooming. I'd photograph it later. Date, time, angle.

Roman looked away first.

I stepped over the broken glass, walked out of the bedroom, and didn't say another word.

Behind me, he stood in the wreckage of his own tantrum.

---

The next afternoon, he called me into his study.

He sat behind the big mahogany desk, hands folded, like a judge. The room smelled like leather and cologne. A single sheet of paper waited in the middle of the desk.

"Sit."

I stayed standing.

He shrugged, like he'd expected that. "Fine. Here's how this goes."

He slid the paper toward me with two fingers.

"A voluntary departure agreement. You leave this apartment by Friday. No settlement. No access to the joint accounts. No negotiation."

He leaned back. His chair creaked. He looked so pleased with himself.

"You have no career," he said. "No savings. No leverage. Walk out quietly, or I'll make sure everyone in this city knows you're an ungrateful, cheating wife who doesn't deserve a cent."

I picked up the paper.

I read it. Slowly. Every clause. Every line.

Roman watched me, a faint smile on his lips. He thought I was reading my own funeral.

I turned the last page. Set it down. Picked it up again.

Then I tore it in half.

The sound was loud in the quiet room. Clean and final.

I tore it again. Dropped the pieces on his desk.

Roman's eyes widened. His smile slid off.

"You really shouldn't have done that," he said.

I almost felt sorry for him.

"No, Roman." My voice was soft. Gentle, even.

"*You* shouldn't have."