Every Thursday, my wife would put on her tiniest red bikini and invite the same guy over to our

I closed the front door, walked back into the kitchen, and tossed the manila envelope onto the island next to my coffee cup.

I didn't open it immediately. I already knew what was inside: standard legal boilerplate drafted by a high-priced attorney who had no idea what kind of evidence waiting on the other end of my encrypted server.

Elena thought she could weaponize the legal system. She thought a smart lawyer and a sympathetic family court judge could wipe away the paperwork I had executed under power of attorney. She was banking on the traditional sympathy courts often extended to spouses claiming sudden displacement.

What she didn't understand was that I hadn't just prepared paperwork.

I walked over to my desk in the corner of the living room, opened my laptop, and entered a six-digit cryptographic key.

The screen flickered, unlocking a hidden directory labeled *'Archive-2024'*.

Inside were nine folders—one for every single Thursday Elena had spent hosting her little afternoon interludes by the pool.

Folder one contained time-stamped security camera footage of Marcus walking through the side gate. Folder two contained audio snippets recorded by the smart-speaker hub near the patio door, capturing their private conversations about how easy I was to fool, how predictable my work commute had become, and how confident they were that I would never find out.

Folder three contained the financial ledger linking Marcus’s defunct shell company to a series of questionable wire transfers that conveniently overlapped with high-end jewelry purchases made on our joint credit cards—purchases Elena had claimed were birthday gifts from her mother.

I scrolled through the files, my fingers resting lightly on the touchpad.