I called Novalee at 7:32 AM. The morning light was cold through the windows of our apartment—the real one, the one Ethan and I actually shared. He was still asleep in the bedroom, one arm flung across my side of the bed like he was reaching for something that wasn't there.

She answered on the first ring.

"Get me everything," I said.

There was a pause. Then her voice came through, steady and professional. "I'll make the call."

Two hours later, I was sitting in her office in Midtown. The walls were lined with law books, the kind that looked expensive and untouched. Novalee set a cup of coffee in front of me—black, no sugar, the way I'd been drinking it since the wedding—and slid a business card across the desk.

Marcus Reid. Private Investigator. Specializing in Discreet Inquiries.

"He's good," Novalee said. "Former FBI. He doesn't ask questions, and he doesn't leave trails."

I picked up the card. The paper was thick, textured. Real.

"How long?" I asked.

"Two weeks. Maybe three if we're thorough."

I nodded. Set down my coffee without drinking it. "I want to be thorough."

Fourteen days later, I returned to Novalee's office. This time, Marcus was there too—a man in his fifties with gray temples and the kind of face that gave nothing away. He had a laptop open on the conference table, a folder beside it.

"Ms. Elliott," he said. "Before we begin, I need to confirm you want to see this."

I sat down. Folded my hands in my lap. "Show me."

He turned the laptop toward me and pressed play.

The footage was black-and-white, grainy but clear enough. A hotel lobby. Marble floors. A timestamp in the corner: 12:43 AM. The night of my wedding.

Brinley walked through the frame first, still in that white gown, the train gathered in one hand. Her face was turned up, laughing at something. Then Ethan appeared beside her, his arm around her waist, guiding her toward the elevator.

They stepped inside. The doors closed.

Marcus clicked to the next file. Same hotel. Different camera. The hallway outside room 1407. The elevator doors opened at 12:45 AM. They stepped out together. Ethan had his hand on the small of her back. She leaned into him.

He swiped the keycard. The door opened. They went inside.

The timestamp ticked forward. 12:46 AM. 12:47 AM. 1:00 AM.

The door didn't open again until 4:11 AM.

I watched Ethan step into the hallway alone, his tie loose, his shirt untucked. He ran a hand through his hair—that gesture, that tell—and walked toward the elevator.

Marcus stopped the video.

The room was silent. Novalee was watching me, her expression careful, controlled. Marcus had already closed the laptop, giving me space.

I touched my wedding ring. Turned it slowly on my finger. The metal was warm from my skin.

"What else?" I said.

Marcus opened the folder. Inside were printed transcripts—pages and pages of text messages, voice message logs, timestamps and dates going back months. He slid the first page toward me.

A voice message from Brinley to Ethan, sent three weeks before the wedding: "I can't believe you're really doing this. Marrying her. She doesn't even know you, not the way I do. Call me when you're alone."

Another, from two days after the wedding: "I hate that she gets to wake up next to you. It should have been me, E. You know it should have been me."

Another, from last Tuesday: "She's so fragile, isn't she? Always needing reassurance. I would never be that way. I would never make you feel trapped."

I read them all. Every single one. My hands didn't shake. My breath stayed even.

Novalee leaned forward. "Under the prenuptial fidelity clause, this is more than sufficient. Emotional infidelity. Failure to maintain boundaries. The hotel footage seals it."

I set down the transcripts. Looked at Marcus. "Is this admissible?"

"Every recording was obtained legally," he said. "New York is a one-party consent state. If Ethan saved these messages, they're fair game. And the hotel footage is from a public security system."

I nodded slowly. Picked up my phone. Opened my photo gallery.

There was a picture I'd taken three nights ago. Ethan had left his phone on the kitchen counter while he showered. A text from Brinley glowed on the screen: "She doesn't understand you the way I do. You know that, right?"

I'd photographed it. Added it to my own file.

I showed it to Novalee now. She studied it, then looked up at me.

"You've been building this case for weeks," she said quietly.

"I've been surviving," I said.

I stood. Gathered the folder, the transcripts, the business card. Everything I needed.

"Thank you, Marcus," I said. "Send the invoice to Novalee."

He nodded once. "Good luck, Ms. Elliott."

I walked out into the November cold. The city was loud around me—sirens, voices, the hiss of steam from a grate. I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the buildings, the gray sky pressing down.

I had everything now. Every piece of evidence. Every recorded cruelty. Every broken boundary.

I had enough to walk away clean.

I just had to decide when.