My husband asked me to let my sister be his “wife” for one night. He said it like he was asking me to pass the salt.

For the first time since the kitchen, Carissa felt something other than pain in her chest.

Not relief exactly.

Alignment.

“What if it makes things worse?” she asked.

Jackson’s mouth twitched. “For whom?”

That afternoon, Damen texted twelve times.

Where are you.
Did you talk to Jackson.
Don’t drag him into this.
You’re acting unstable.
We need to handle this privately.
You always have to make everything humiliating.
Call me.
Carissa.

She did not respond to any of them.

Instead she went to work, billed six hours, called her family attorney from a private conference room, and started asking questions women too often postpone until after the damage is expensive.

Whose name is on the deed?
Mine only.
What about the cars?
One leased in my name. One paid off in mine.
Joint accounts?
Yes, but he contributes very little.
Retirement?
Separate.
Any children?
No.
Infidelity relevant?
Not much for division. Very relevant for your clarity.

The attorney, a sharp-eyed woman named Denise Kessler whom Carissa knew by reputation and now liked on sight, asked her one question that stuck.

“Do you want to save the marriage,” Denise said, “or do you want to stop losing yourself inside it?”