The house didn't feel like mine anymore.

I knew that the moment Cole helped me through the front door. Carmen's coat hung on the rack by the entrance — charcoal cashmere, still holding the shape of her shoulders. Her shoes sat beneath it. Black heels, size seven, toes pointed inward like they were waiting for her to step back into them.

Cole guided me to the couch. His hand on my elbow. Gentle. Careful.

"I'll get you settled," he said. "Then I have some paperwork we should go over. Nothing urgent. Whenever you're ready."

Paperwork.

I nodded. I kept my face soft. Empty.

He brought me tea I didn't ask for. He adjusted the pillow behind my back. He asked if the light was too bright, and I said no, it's fine, even though I was wearing the dark medical glasses and shouldn't have been able to tell.

He didn't notice.

An hour later, he sat down beside me with a leather portfolio. He opened it carefully. I heard paper slide against paper.

"Sloane." His voice dropped into the register he used when he wanted to sound reasonable. "I've been thinking about our situation. About what's fair."

I turned my head toward him. Slowly. Like I was following the sound.

"I want to make sure you're taken care of," he said. "So I had our attorneys draw up a settlement. A divorce agreement. You'd receive twenty percent of Jensen Corp. That's a substantial stake. More than generous, honestly."

He put the papers in my lap.

"I can read it to you," he offered. "Or we can have someone else review it. Whatever makes you comfortable."

I reached for the papers. My fingers brushed the edge, hesitant, uncertain. I let them tremble just a little.

"Can you… can you just show me where to sign?"

He exhaled. Relief. "Of course."

He guided my hand to the signature line at the bottom of the first page. His finger tapped the spot twice.

But I didn't sign.

I tilted my head. "Can you read me the part about the shares? I want to understand."

A pause. Short. Almost nothing.

"Sure." He cleared his throat. "You'll receive twenty percent equity in Jensen Corp, transferred in full within thirty days of the finalized divorce. It's all very standard."

I nodded slowly. I pulled the document closer, like I was trying to feel the words with my fingers.

Behind the dark lenses, I read every word.

Page three. Section 7(b). Share Transfer Terms.

*Beneficiary: Carmen Alvarez.*

Not Sloane Elliott.

Not me.

I read it twice to be sure. Then I read the contingency clauses. The liability waivers. The non-disclosure agreement buried in the appendix that would have barred me from ever speaking publicly about Cole, Jensen Corp, or the circumstances of our marriage.

It was elegant. Thorough. Designed to strip me of everything while making it look like generosity.

I let the papers rest in my lap.

"I need some time," I said quietly. "To think about it."

Cole's hand covered mine. "Of course. No pressure. Take all the time you need."

He kissed my forehead. He told me he had a dinner meeting and would be back late. He told me to rest.

I listened to him leave.

I listened to the garage door close.

I listened to the sound of his car fade down the street.

Then I took off the glasses.

***

I stood up slowly, testing my weight. The leg held. It ached, but it held.

I walked through the house with my eyes wide open.

The living room first. I stood in the center and turned in a slow circle. I noted the sightlines. The angles. Where the furniture broke the view and where it didn't. I looked at the bookshelf, the mantel, the corner where the lamp cast uneven light.

Then the kitchen. The bedroom. The study.

I mapped every room like I was plotting coordinates.

That night, I sat at the desk in the guest room — the one Cole never used — and opened my laptop. I created a new email account under a name that wasn't mine. I routed it through a VPN Norah had helped me set up during one of her after-hours visits to my hospital room.

I found a supplier. Discreet. No questions. Pinhole cameras. Twelve units. Battery backup. Motion activation. Cloud upload.

I paid with a pre-loaded card I'd had delivered to a PO box I'd rented under the same fake name.

Three days later, a package arrived. I told Cole it was a delivery for the neighbor. He brought it inside and left it by the door without asking.

***

I waited until he left for the office. Then I opened the box.

The cameras were smaller than I expected. Each one no bigger than a shirt button. I held one up to the light and turned it slowly in my fingers.

I started in the bedroom.

One unit behind the picture frame on the dresser. Another tucked into the crown molding above the closet door, angled toward the bed.

I moved to the study. One camera inside the bookshelf, nestled between two legal texts Cole hadn't opened in years. I tested the angle. Perfect view of his desk.

Living room. Two units. One in the air vent. One behind the clock on the mantel.

Kitchen. Entrance hall. Cole's private office alcove, the one he disappeared into for calls he said were confidential.

I installed every camera with my hands steady and my breathing even. I tested each feed on my phone. I watched the empty rooms flicker to life on the screen, every angle clear, every corner visible.

I set the footage to auto-upload to an encrypted cloud account. I gave Norah the emergency access credentials in a sealed envelope, with instructions to open it only if something happened to me.

Then I erased my browser history. I put the dark glasses back on. I sat on the couch with my hands folded in my lap.

When Cole came home that evening, I was exactly where he expected me to be.

Blind. Helpless. Waiting.

He asked if I'd thought about the papers.

I said I needed a little more time.

He said that was fine. He kissed the top of my head.

And I sat there, in a house full of cameras he would never see, and I watched him walk away.