The morning of our divorce, my husband walked in with his mistress on his arm—both dressed like they’d already claimed the life they thought they stole from me.

You adjust your coat over your belly and meet Damian’s eyes. “No,” you say. “You set yourself up. I just refused to keep helping.”

“You had no right to go through confidential business material.”

Michael steps between you with the kind of smoothness that suggests he has been waiting for this. “Actually, material forwarded to the marital residence and tied to shared financial disclosures becomes very interesting very quickly.”

Damian ignores him. He is still looking only at you. “You think this makes you clever?”

You smile then. Not sweetly. Not cruelly either. Just enough.

“No,” you say. “I think it makes me done.”

That lands harder than the evidence did.

He takes a step toward you, but the judge’s bailiff appears from nowhere and asks if there is a problem. Damian backs off with a muttered curse. Rebecca reaches for his arm. He jerks away from her without thinking.

That is the first real crack between them.