If Mark tried to swipe a card in Maui for Bianca’s expensive tastes, or move a dollar to hide it, he’d hit a concrete wall.

By three that afternoon, an automated alert told me his flight had landed. I retreated to the motel and opened the smart-home security app on my tablet.

Years ago I’d installed hidden cameras in the living room and kitchen to watch over Vivian while I cooked or did laundry. Now they were my private theater.

At eight, the front door of my former home rattled open — and Mark didn’t walk in alone.

“It’s a little dark, babe, but wait until you see the potential,” his voice came through the speaker. He hauled his leather luggage into the black entryway, high heels clicking behind him.

Bianca stepped into frame. Younger than I’d imagined, dripping in labels bought with my suffering.