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.

He guided me through the ballroom, weaving between tables of guests.

"Director Lambert, this is my wife, Gay Fox."

"Well, well! Attorney Mason really does have it all—career and love." George Lambert smiled broadly.

"Too kind, sir. I owe it all to your mentorship."

Once the pleasantries were done, we drifted to a table near the edge of the room.

Mary Pruitt was sitting there.

She wore a white strapless dress tonight, looking every bit the fresh-faced college graduate—pure and innocent.

When she spotted Brad, her eyes lit up.

"Mr. Mason!"

Then she noticed me. Her smile dimmed a fraction.

"Mrs. Mason, hello."

I looked at her.

So this was the girl he'd blown three hundred thousand dollars bailing out.

This was the girl who'd been handing him "pink tickets."

I gave a polite nod.

"Hi. I heard you got your full-time offer. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Mrs. Mason." Mary's voice was syrupy sweet. "Mr. Mason is so strict with me at work. I only made it because he pushed me so hard."

"Is that so?" I smiled. "He's pretty strict with me, too. Always docking points and fining me."

Brad's expression shifted. He nudged me with his elbow.

"Gay. Watch the jokes. Wrong audience."

Mary covered her mouth and giggled. "Mrs. Mason is so funny. Mr. Mason is the gentlest person I know. He'd never fine anyone."

Gentle.

I looked at Brad.

The way he looked at Mary—there was genuine tenderness in his eyes.

The kind of tenderness I hadn't seen once in three years.

"If everyone could quiet down, please."

Director Lambert's voice cut through the ballroom speakers.

"Tonight is our firm's annual gala. And it is also the occasion to announce an important personnel appointment."

The room fell silent.

"Following a unanimous vote by the partners, Attorney Brad Mason is officially promoted to Senior Partner of this firm!"

Applause erupted.

Brad straightened his suit jacket, face glowing, and strode up to the stage.

He took the microphone.

"Thank you to the firm for this trust, and to all my colleagues for your support."

He launched into the speech he'd been rehearsing for weeks.

Ideals. Justice. Responsibility. The spirit of contracts.

"I have always believed that in both work and life, rules and contracts are the cornerstone of order."

"I've carried that same philosophy into my family. My wife and I have always operated our marriage on principles of rationality and transparency..."

He spoke with easy confidence on that stage.

I sat below, slipping the USB drive out of my clutch.

I walked toward the AV booth.

The tech guy running the sound was scrolling through his phone.

"Excuse me." I tapped the table. "I'm Attorney Mason's wife. He asked me to load this slideshow to go with his speech."

The kid glanced at my polished, elegant outfit and didn't question it.

"Sure thing, ma'am."

He took the USB drive and plugged it into the laptop.

"Which file?"

"The only slideshow on there."

Double-click.

The firm's logo vanished from the massive screen.

In its place, bold black letters filled every inch of the display:

BRAD MASON: A THREE-YEAR MARRIAGE PERFORMANCE REVIEW