It shows over four thousand late-night text messages to Chloe’s personal number.”

I set the second folder down in front of my father.

“This is the surveillance log from a private investigator I hired three weeks ago.

It details their regular afternoon meetings at the Grand Hyatt downtown, complete with photographs and time stamps.

The room charges, you’ll notice, were paid for out of our joint emergency savings account.” And finally, I picked up a third folder, legal-sized, and I walked to the head of the table, and I placed it directly on Julian’s empty pie plate.

“And this,” I said, and I smiled at him, warmly, for the first time in six days meaning it, “is a formal petition for divorce, along with an emergency freeze on all of our marital assets, filed this morning.” The AI-voice-generator defense died in my husband’s throat.