Big pitch meetings. My stomach churned, but I forced a mild, obliging smile. “I’ll be up in a minute. Go ahead.”

Watching him walk down the hall toward the bed he’d defiled was an exercise in psychological endurance. I had to sleep next to him that night. I had to listen to his steady breathing, feel the warmth of his skin, knowing exactly where those hands had been.

I didn’t sleep a single minute. I spent the night staring at the ceiling, designing my masterpiece.

By Thursday morning I’d finalized the plan. The divorce would be clinical and ruthless, handled entirely by Marcus. But the familial reckoning required a more personal touch.

I contacted a discreet printing firm downtown and uploaded the image through a secure link.

“I need this blown up,” I told the printer, my voice deadpan. “Six feet tall by four feet wide. Museum-quality canvas. High-gloss finish. Delivered by Friday afternoon.”