Opened our joint account.
Still shared.
Still “ours.”
I stared for a second.
Then I started moving money.
Carefully.
Systematically.
Checking to savings.
Vacation fund—moved.
Emergency reserve—emptied.
Only what I could legally take.
This wasn’t revenge.
It was control.
In trauma medicine, you triage.
My phone buzzed.
Daniel.
I didn’t answer.
It buzzed again.
Finally, I picked up.
“Hey,” he said smoothly. “Flight got delayed.”
“London?” I asked.
A pause.
“Yeah.”
I almost laughed.
“Interesting,” I said softly. “Because I’m in maternity at St. Vincent’s.”
Silence.
“…Maya,” he said. “I can explain.”
“I’m sure you can,” I replied. “But not here.”
I hung up.
Then I called Vanessa.
“I need a divorce plan,” I said. “Today.”
“What happened?”
“My husband is holding a newborn with another woman while telling me he’s in London.”
No shock.
Just focus.
“Secure your finances. Move fast.”
“I already did.”
“Good. Finish your shift. Then come see me.”
So I went back to surgery.
Because that’s what I do.
By nightfall, the city looked normal.
That was the worst part.
Vanessa’s office was quiet.
I told her everything.
Within a day, we had a name.
Her name was Ashley.
Photos followed.
One stood out.
Daniel, hand on her pregnant stomach.
Smiling.