The financial trail came from our own accounts: dinners, a jewelry charge, weekend bookings, and, at the center of it, a wire for thirty-five thousand dollars labeled Project Consulting Retainer, routed from Warner’s operating account straight into Renae Fenmore’s personal checking.

And the texts — months of them — read like a script: promises to handle the marriage once the funding cleared, assurances that she was the only one who understood his vision.

The afternoon before the dinner, while the house was empty, I did a dry run.

I loaded the whole dossier onto the media hub and cast it, in order, to the big drop-down screen in the living room — the photographs, the ledger, the highlighted texts, each a clean slide.

It played flawlessly.

Standing in the empty room, watching my marriage laid out in evidence on a sixty-inch screen, I felt no rage.