He had spent our whole marriage treating my work as a woman’s little hobby, something adjacent to real business, not worth understanding.

He had never once grasped that I had built my company — and my fortune — on exactly this: the science of proving what is real.

Chain of custody.

Cryptographic hashing.

The forensic verification of digital evidence so that it holds when a clever lawyer stands up and says it could have been faked. Every recording I had preserved from my hospital bed, I had preserved the way I would have preserved evidence for a corporate client under attack: hashed at the moment of capture, logged, timestamped against independent sources, the whole custody trail documented and mirrored to third parties before tonight so that no one could claim I had manufactured it after the fact.

When Emiliano cried deepfake, he was not raising a real defense.