"Fine," I said.

The next day, Brad went to the firm to work overtime. Something about a big case he needed to follow up on.

I grabbed a rag and a bottle of disinfectant and started cleaning. Living room to bedroom. Kitchen to study.

The study was his territory. I wasn't allowed to touch his files. It was written right there in the rules: "Unauthorized access to the other party's private documents: minus 50 points."

I wasn't planning to touch his files today.

I turned on his desktop computer.

He was the type to password-protect everything. But I knew his password. It wasn't his birthday. It wasn't mine, either. It was the date he'd received his bar certification.

I typed it in. The desktop loaded.

His work computer and home computer were synced through the same cloud account. I opened the cloud drive and typed a keyword into the search bar: Chase Bank.

A few folders popped up. I clicked the most recent one.

Inside were digital transaction receipts, one after another. I scrolled down. Down to the seventeenth of last month.

A wire transfer receipt.

Sender: Brad Mason.

Recipient: Mary Pruitt.

Amount: $300,000.00.

Memo: None.

The sending account ended in 4321. That was our household fund.

I stared at the string of zeros on the screen. Counted them three times.

Three hundred thousand dollars.

He'd taken the money we saved together and used it to bail out his intern. Three hundred thousand dollars' worth.

And when my father was in the ICU, he'd made me sign a promissory note at prime plus thirty percent.

I picked up my phone and photographed the receipt.

Then I kept digging.

I found a folder labeled "Miscellaneous." It was full of images. I clicked the first one.

A handwritten penalty slip. Pink stationery.

"Mr. Mason didn't eat his veggies today—one cuddle session revoked! —Your personal supervisor, Mary."

Dated six months ago.

The second one.

"Mr. Mason stayed up past midnight—penalty: one Chanel bag! No appeals accepted!"

The third.

"Mr. Mason looked at another girl for more than three seconds—penalty: take me to the movies this weekend AND pay for everything!"

There were dozens of them. Every single one was flirty and playful. Every single "punishment" was either a cute demand for affection or a request for a gift.

I stared at those slips.

And I thought about mine.

"Towels not folded to regulation. Fine: $200."

"Unauthorized consumption of premium groceries. Pay via QR code."

"Dishes washed but countertop not wiped. Minus 10 points."

I sat in his leather executive chair.

And I laughed.

Laughed until tears ran down my face.

So he wasn't born cold-blooded. He wasn't incapable of tenderness.

He'd simply given all his rules and rigidity to me. And all his indulgence and sweetness to Mary Pruitt.

I selected every image in the folder, zipped them into a single file, and sent it to my encrypted email. Then I cleared the sent history.

I opened my analytics software. As a data analyst, building relational models from massive datasets was what I did best.

I logged into the online banking portal for the account ending in 4321. He'd changed the password, but I was on his computer, and the browser had auto-saved his credentials.

Login successful.

Account balance: $3,450.50.

Three years. Over six hundred and fifty thousand dollars in our household fund.

Reduced to three thousand four hundred and fifty dollars.

I exported every transaction from the past three years. Saved them as a spreadsheet. Sent it to my email.

I finished everything and put the computer back exactly the way I'd found it.

Even the mouse hadn't moved a millimeter.

Then I picked up my cleaning rag and went to the bathroom to fish the hair out of the drain.

Three o'clock in the afternoon.

I was scrubbing the toilet.

My phone buzzed.

A WhatsApp message from Brad.

"I won't be home for dinner tonight. Firm event."

"Also, your points are short this month. Tomorrow's housework is all yours. And don't forget—interest on the IOU is due by the fifteenth."

I stared at the screen.

Typed one word back.

"Fine."

Monday.

I took a half day off work.

And went to the office of my college classmate, Oliver James.

Oliver had built a serious reputation handling marriage and family cases.

I slid the USB drive across the desk toward him.

"Take a look. Tell me if this is enough to leave him with nothing."

Oliver plugged the drive into his computer.

He went through it for over an hour.

The only sound in the office was the clicking of the mouse.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair and let out a long breath.

"Gay, your husband is a real piece of work."

"How so?"

"This point system of his—legally speaking, it actually qualifies as a voluntary internal agreement between spouses. As long as it doesn't violate any mandatory legal provisions, it's enforceable."

"So the money he docked from me was legitimate?"

"On the surface, yes." Oliver pointed at the screen. "But his fatal mistake was transferring marital assets."

"The three hundred thousand."

"Exactly. Transferring a large sum of joint marital property to a third party without spousal consent. In legal terms, that's malicious dissipation of assets."

Oliver clicked open the images of those pink penalty slips.

"And then there's these. They serve as corroborating evidence of an illicit relationship between him and Mary Pruitt. There's no caught-in-the-act smoking gun, but combined with the three-hundred-thousand-dollar transfer, it forms a complete evidentiary chain."

"How much can I get back?"

"The three hundred thousand—you can demand full restitution. The gift was an unauthorized disposal of joint property, which makes it legally void."

"What about the rest of our money?"

"I went through the transaction records." Oliver flipped open several printed pages. "Beyond that three hundred thousand, over the past two years he's been buying her handbags, jewelry, and covering rent on a luxury apartment. Roughly another two hundred and fifty thousand, all pulled from the family fund."

I closed my eyes.

Six hundred and fifty thousand dollars.

He'd drained five hundred and fifty thousand of it.

Spent on another woman.

"If I file for divorce, how does the asset split work?" I asked.

"Given the severity of his misconduct—concealing and transferring marital assets—the court will award him a significantly reduced share. Possibly nothing at all."

Oliver studied me.

"Gay, when are you planning to lay your cards on the table?"

"Not yet." I opened my eyes. "He's up for Senior Partner at the firm next month, isn't he?"

Oliver blinked.

"How do you know that?"

"I overheard him on the phone at home. He said it was the most critical step in his career. That he couldn't afford a single piece of bad press."

Oliver smiled.

"Got it. You want to hit him where it hurts the most."

"He ran our marriage like a corporation," I said, rising to my feet. "So I'm going to give him a full-scale year-end audit."

After leaving Oliver's office, I went to the hospital.

My dad's condition had stabilized.

He'd been moved out of the ICU and into a regular room.

When I arrived, a caretaker was spooning oatmeal into his mouth.

"There's my girl." His face was still pale.

"Dad, how are you feeling?"

"Much better. It's just the money... that must've cost a fortune, right?"

"Don't worry about it, Dad. We have enough."

My father sighed.

"Where's Brad? He didn't come with you?"

"He's swamped at the firm."

"Oh. Busy is good." He hesitated. "Gay, is Brad... treating you well?"

"He's great. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing. Just... a couple days ago, when I was still in and out of it, I thought I heard you on the phone. Something about an IOU and interest payments."

A sharp ache bloomed behind my ribs.

"You misheard, Dad. It was a work thing."

"Good. If anyone's giving you a hard time, don't bottle it up. Your old man might not have much, but this family doesn't owe anybody anything."

I wrapped my fingers around his hand, careful of the IV bruises.

"I know. I don't owe him a thing."

I didn't just not owe him.

I was going to make him pay back every last cent—with interest.

Back home, I opened my laptop.

And I started building spreadsheets.

I was an excellent data analyst.

My specialty was taking tangled, chaotic data and turning it into clean, undeniable visualizations.

I was about to create the most flawless presentation of my life.

Part One: The Point System and Penalty Breakdown.

Part Two: Fund Transfers and Irregular Expenditures.

Part Three: The Pink Penalty Slips and a "Special Relationship."

I was meticulous.

Every single transaction was backed by original screenshots and bank statement reference numbers.

Every single penalty slip corresponded to a transfer Brad had made to Mary.

Take the one that read "Penalty: one Chanel handbag."

Three days later, $5,800 left the household fund account. Recipient: the Chanel boutique at Grandview Plaza.

Or the one that read "Penalty: accompany me to the movies this weekend and pay for everything."

That same weekend, $3,800 left the account. Recipient: a five-star resort in the Bahamas.

Every line item was organized. Every piece of evidence was airtight.

I named the presentation: Brad Mason's Three-Year Marriage Performance Review.

Save.

Encrypt.

For the next two weeks, I played the role of model employee.

I woke up on time. I folded the towels according to regulation.

I wiped down the kitchen counters until they were spotless after every dish.

On the fifteenth, I even went out of my way to transfer the interest payment on that hundred-thousand-dollar loan directly into his personal account.

Every last dollar.

He checked the deposit and gave a satisfied nod.

"Gay, your performance this month has been impressive. Your score went up fifteen points. Keep it up."

"Okay," I said. Obedient.

"Next Saturday night, the firm is hosting a gala at The Continental Hotel. It's mainly to announce my promotion to Senior Partner."

He said this while adjusting his tie.

"Spouses are expected to attend. Get yourself something appropriate to wear. Don't embarrass me."

"Okay."

"Also—" He paused. "Mary will be there."

My hand stilled on the coffee mug.

"Why is she going?"

"She's my mentee. With my promotion, she's getting brought on full-time. Everyone's celebrating together."

He looked at me.

"Don't give me that look. In public, you need to act like you understand how things work. Show some grace—like a Senior Partner's wife should. If you make a scene, that's a hundred points off."

A hundred points.

A thousand dollars in penalties.

I smiled.

"Don't worry. I'll make sure you look absolutely incredible."

Saturday night.

The Continental Hotel ballroom.

I wore a black silk gown, my hair swept up without a single strand out of place.

In my hand, a silver clutch.

Inside the clutch, a flash drive.

Brad was in a custom-tailored suit tonight, radiating triumph.