The doctors had been clear: the factory was closed. There were no miracles coming from me.

But I didn’t tell her then. I didn’t scream. I didn’t file for divorce immediately. That would have been messy. That would have allowed her to spin the narrative—to claim she was the victim, that I was the neglectful husband, that it was a “mistake.”

No. I needed blueprints. I needed evidence. I needed to build a trap so intricate, so inescapable, that when the walls came down, they would bury only the guilty.

“Shall we open the gifts?” Sarah chirped, clapping her hands. “I’m dying to see what everyone brought for little… well, we’ll see!”

The guests gathered around a mountain of pastel-wrapped boxes. I stood back, leaning against a pillar, watching the performance. I caught the eye of Helen, my divorce attorney, who was standing discreetly near the back, nursing a sparkling water. She gave me a microscopic nod. The paperwork was in the car. The assets were frozen. The locks on the penthouse were already changed.