I watched their faces. It was a masterclass in human destruction.

Inside Claire’s box lay a pristine 8×10 glossy photograph of her champagne lace camisole abandoned on my bedroom floor, positioned perfectly beside Damon’s discarded shirt.

Beneath the photo was a laminated printout of her digital entry codes, the six dates highlighted in violent, screaming red.

Inside Damon’s box lay a certified copy of the Riverton Heights lease agreement, my forged signature circled in black ink, sitting atop a photocopy of our airtight prenuptial agreement.

The color drained from Claire’s face so fast she looked like a corpse. Her hands trembled so violently the box slipped from her grasp and hit the hardwood.

The photograph spilled out, landing face-up for the front row of guests to see.