I called Teagan before Chloe woke up.

She answered on the second ring. "What's wrong?"

I hadn't said a word yet. That's how long we've known each other.

"I need to meet," I said. "Today. Privately."

"Back office," she said. "Nine-thirty. I'll have coffee ready."

She didn't ask what it was about. She just knew.

---

The bakery smelled like butter and cinnamon when I walked in. Teagan was behind the counter, boxing a birthday cake for a woman in yoga pants. She caught my eye and tilted her head toward the hallway. I nodded and slipped past the display case, past the espresso machine, into the cramped little room she calls an office.

It's barely bigger than a closet. A desk piled with invoices. A filing cabinet. A framed photo of her and her sister at Pike Place. Two mismatched chairs. She'd already set out two mugs.

I sat in the chair closest to the wall and waited.

Teagan came in three minutes later, shut the door, and locked it. She set a plate of scones between us. Then she sat down, folded her hands, and said, "Okay."

I opened my notebook.

"Keith's been having an affair," I said. "For eight months. With a twenty-four-year-old from his office. Her name is Romina Vargas. I found two thousand four hundred and thirty-seven photos on his phone. I've documented ninety-three TikTok videos. I have screenshots, geotags, timestamps, and a credit card trail that goes back to February."

I slid the notebook across the desk.

Teagan didn't touch it. She just looked at me. Her mouth was a flat line.

"Jo," she said quietly.

"I need an attorney," I said. "A good one. Someone who doesn't lose."

She picked up the notebook. Flipped through it. Her jaw tightened with every page.

"Jesus Christ," she whispered.

She set the notebook down. Pulled out her phone. Scrolled through her contacts without a word.

"Sandra Okafor," she said. "She handled my cousin's divorce two years ago. The husband tried to hide assets in his brother's name. Sandra found every dollar. He walked away with his car and his guilt."

"Can you call her?"

"I'm calling her right now."

She pressed the phone to her ear. I heard ringing. Then a voice, crisp and professional.

"Sandra Okafor."

"Sandra, it's Teagan Adams. I need a favor. A friend of mine needs representation. It's urgent."

A pause.

"How urgent?"

"I'm looking at a notebook that would make you very angry," Teagan said.

Another pause. Longer this time.

"Can she meet today?"

Teagan looked at me. I nodded.

"Yes," Teagan said.

"Two o'clock. My office. Tell her to bring everything."

"Thank you."

Teagan hung up. She reached across the desk and squeezed my hand.

"You're gonna be okay," she said.

I nodded. I didn't believe her yet. But I wanted to.

---

Sandra Okafor's office was downtown, tucked between a law library and a coffee shop I'd never noticed before. The lobby was small and clean. No magazines. No fake plants. Just a receptionist who looked up when I walked in and said, "Mrs. Morris?"

"Ms. Snyder," I said.

She blinked. "Of course. Ms. Snyder. She's ready for you."

Sandra's office was exactly what I expected. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. A desk the size of a dining table. Framed degrees on the wall. She stood when I entered — a Black woman in her fifties, gray blazer, silver earrings, eyes that missed nothing.

"Josie," she said. "Sit."

I sat.

She sat across from me, folded her hands on the desk, and waited.

I pulled out my notebook. My phone. A printed timeline I'd compiled the night before. I slid them across the desk one by one.

"My husband has been having an affair for eight months," I said. "I have documentation. Photos, videos, financial records. I want a divorce. I want full custody of our daughter. And I want him to walk away with nothing."

Sandra picked up the notebook. Read the first page. Flipped to the second. Then the third. Her expression didn't change.

She set the notebook down and looked at me.

"You've done good work here," she said. "This is more than most clients bring me in six months."

"Thank you."

"But emotional evidence isn't enough," she said. "Not if you want to guarantee he gets nothing. What I need is financial misconduct. Provable, documented, court-admissible financial misconduct."

I leaned forward.

"What does that look like?"

"Marital funds used to support the affair," she said. "Gifts. Rent payments. Travel. Anything that shows he diverted money that should have gone to the household or to your daughter. If we can prove that, we have grounds for a much larger settlement. And if he gave her enough, we can go after her directly."

"Go after her?"

"Unjust enrichment," Sandra said. "If she benefited financially from the affair, and those benefits came from marital assets, we can sue her for reimbursement."

I felt something shift in my chest. Not rage. Something sharper.

"How do I prove it?"

"Forensic accountant," she said. "Someone who can trace every transaction, every transfer, every hidden account. I know the best in Seattle. I can have him start tomorrow."

I nodded.

"Do it."

Sandra picked up a pen. Pulled a contract across the desk.

"Retainer is five thousand," she said. "Non-refundable. If this goes to trial, we'll discuss additional fees. But I don't think it will. Men like your husband don't want courtrooms. They want quiet."

"I don't want quiet," I said.

She looked up. Something almost like a smile crossed her face.

"Good," she said. "Then we're going to get along just fine."

I signed the contract. She slid it into a folder and stood.

"One more thing," she said. "From this point forward, you do not confront him. You do not let him know you've retained counsel. You act exactly the way you've been acting. Can you do that?"

I thought of Keith's face in the bathroom mirror that morning. The way he'd smiled at me over his coffee. The way he'd kissed Chloe's forehead and told her he'd see her tonight.

"Yes," I said.

Sandra extended her hand. I shook it.

"Then let's go to work."

I made chicken piccata on Tuesday.

Keith's favorite. The recipe takes forty minutes and dirties three pans, but he'd mentioned it over the weekend — casually, the way men mention things when they want you to remember without having to ask — so I made it.

He came home at seven-fifteen. Kissed my cheek. Told Chloe her ponytail looked like a pineapple. She giggled. He washed his hands at the kitchen sink and I watched the water run over his knuckles and thought about the girl's mouth on his in a car I paid half the insurance on.

"Smells amazing," he said.

"Thanks," I said. "How was work?"

"Exhausting." He loosened his tie. "Back-to-back meetings all afternoon. I barely had time to eat."

I set his plate in front of him. Extra capers, the way he likes.

"You should take better care of yourself," I said.

He smiled. Reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

"I'm lucky I have you."

Chloe was drawing a horse on her napkin with a purple crayon. She didn't look up. But I saw her shoulders tighten just slightly. Kids know. They always know.

After dinner, Keith took a shower. I heard the water start, heard him humming that tuneless song again. I cleared the table. Loaded the dishwasher. Wiped down the counters. When I opened the trash to scrape his plate, I saw it.

A receipt. Crumpled at the bottom. From a café on Capitol Hill.

Two lattes. One almond croissant. One lemon bar.

Timestamp: 12:47 p.m.

I pulled it out. Smoothed it flat. Took a photo. Dropped it back in the trash exactly where I'd found it.

Then I went into the living room and opened TikTok.

Romina had posted an hour ago. A video filmed from across a small table. Two coffee cups. A pastry on a plate between them. Her hand reaching into the frame to break off a piece, her nails painted the same shade of red I'd seen in the hidden photos.

The caption read: *Lunch dates with him hit different 💛.*

I watched it twice. Saved it. Opened my burner account — the one I'd created three days ago under the name @jessika_l — and scrolled through her previous posts until I found one from last week. A photo of her in a black dress, twirling in front of a mirror. Forty-three comments, most of them heart emojis and flame emojis and women saying *stunning babe* and *where's the dress from*.

I typed: *Gorgeous! Is your boyfriend taking you somewhere special?*

Posted it.

Scrolled to another video. Her in a car, lip-syncing to something breathy and dramatic. I typed: *He better be worth it girl 👀.*

Posted it.

I left five comments that night. Nothing aggressive. Nothing that would get flagged. Just enough to make her followers start wondering.

By Thursday morning, other people had picked it up.

Someone named @marissa_kaye had written: *Wait who is this man? I thought you were single lol.*

Someone else: *If he's so great why don't we ever see his face?*

Another: *This gives me bad vibes ngl.*

Romina deleted two of her older posts that afternoon. I watched the count drop in real time. Forty-three videos to forty-one.

I smiled.

---

Friday night, Keith suggested we take a family photo.

"For Instagram," he said. "We haven't posted anything in a while."

Chloe groaned. "Do I have to change?"

"No, baby," I said. "You're perfect."

We stood in the kitchen. Keith set the timer on his phone and propped it against the fruit bowl. He put his arm around my waist. I leaned into him. Chloe stood in front of us, holding her stuffed rabbit, looking at the camera like she was being audited.

The shutter clicked.

Keith checked the photo. Nodded. "Good one."

He posted it twenty minutes later. I watched from the couch while he typed the caption.

*Grateful for the ones who matter most. Nothing better than coming home to these two.* ❤️

The likes started rolling in immediately. His mother commented three heart emojis. His college roommate wrote *family goals bro*.

I checked the timestamp.

6:47 p.m.

Then I opened Romina's TikTok. She'd posted sixteen minutes ago. A mirror selfie. Hair curled. Makeup flawless. The caption: *Getting ready for him 🥂✨.*

I screenshotted both. Opened my notebook. Wrote the date at the top of a new page.

*November 3. Posted family photo 6:47 p.m. She posted getting-ready video 6:31 p.m. Likely meeting tonight.*

I looked up. Keith was on the couch beside me, scrolling through replies to his post, smiling at something someone had written.

"People love that photo," he said.

"They do," I said.

He kissed the top of my head. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

I didn't answer. I just turned the page in my notebook and started a new list.

Things were about to get much worse for him.

And I was going to make sure I enjoyed every single second.