I waited until morning to confront him. The kitchen counter between us felt like a battle line as sunlight streamed through our floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the sleek minimalist space Westin had insisted on when we renovated. I'd wanted warm woods and terracotta tiles. He'd wanted chrome and marble. Like everything else, I'd given in.

But not today.

"Seventy-five thousand dollars, Westin." My voice was steadier than I expected. I placed my tablet on the counter, the banking app open to the transaction history. "To Georgia Hamilton. Were you ever going to tell me?"

Westin's coffee cup froze halfway to his lips. For a split second, panic flashed across his face before his features rearranged into something resembling concern.

"You've been going through my computer?" He set down his cup, his tone suggesting I was the one who'd done something wrong.

"I've been looking at our joint accounts," I corrected. "Accounts that contain my money too. Money we agreed would be for our future."

He sighed, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. "It's not what you think, Lorelei."

"Then what is it? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're funneling our savings to another woman."

"It's for her mother." He circled the counter, approaching me with open palms like I was a frightened animal. "Margaret has cancer. Stage four. Georgia can't afford the treatments, and insurance won't cover the experimental protocol that might save her."

I took a step back, maintaining distance. "And this concerns us... how?"

"It's the right thing to do," he insisted, his voice taking on that self-righteous tone I'd grown to recognize whenever he was justifying something questionable. "Think of it as good karma for when we have children. Wouldn't you want someone to help if it were your mother?"

"My mother," I said slowly, "who you've met exactly twice in six years because you always have excuses to skip holidays with my family?"

His jaw tightened. "That's not fair."

"No, you know what's not fair?" My voice rose despite my efforts to remain calm. "Two years ago, when I needed surgery for my endometriosis—surgery that might have preserved my fertility—you told me we couldn't touch our savings. You said it wasn't an emergency."

"That was different," he dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"How? How was that different?"

"Georgia's situation is more urgent. Her mother could die."

The callousness of his response knocked the wind from me. I stared at him, truly seeing him perhaps for the first time. This man who'd held me while I cried over the doctor's warning that the delayed surgery might impact my ability to conceive. This man who'd promised we'd find other ways to have a family "when the time was right."

"So my health, my fertility, wasn't urgent enough for you," I said quietly. "But for Georgia..."

"Don't make this something it's not." Westin's tone hardened. "I'm trying to do a good deed here. You're turning it into something ugly."

"You transferred almost a third of our savings without discussing it with me. You changed our car's air freshener to a scent you know gives me migraines. You come home smelling like someone else's perfume." My voice broke. "What am I supposed to think this is?"

"You're being paranoid." He checked his watch. "I have a client meeting. We'll discuss this later when you're thinking more rationally."

And just like that, he grabbed his briefcase and walked out, leaving me standing in our kitchen, shaking with rage and heartbreak.

* * *

Two days later, I sat in a downtown office across from David Chen, the divorce attorney Sarah had recommended. His office was everything our apartment wasn't—warm woods, soft lighting, bookshelves filled with actual books rather than the artfully arranged objects Westin preferred.

"So he's transferred $75,000 to this woman without your consent," David summarized, reviewing the documents I'd brought. "And you believe they're having an affair?"

"I know they are." I handed him another folder. "Phone records. Text messages I recovered. Hotel receipts."

David raised an eyebrow, impressed. "You've been thorough."

"I'm a nurse," I said simply. "Documentation matters."

He nodded, scanning the evidence. "We'll need to move quickly but carefully. If he's already transferring assets, he may try to hide more."

"What do I do in the meantime?" I asked.

"Act normal," David advised. "Don't give him reason to suspect you're planning anything. We'll need to document everything, build our case, and when the time is right..."

"We strike," I finished, feeling a strange calm settle over me.

At home that evening, I made Westin's favorite dinner and smiled when he complimented the meal. I nodded sympathetically when he mentioned another late meeting the following night. I even kissed him goodbye in the morning, the taste of betrayal bitter on my lips.

Behind my smile, I was already gone.

The discovery came three days after my meeting with David Chen, when I was doing laundry—a mundane task that had become my refuge from the suffocating tension in our apartment.

Westin's navy blazer hung heavy in my hands as I checked the pockets before sending it to the dry cleaner. My fingers brushed against something that crinkled—paper, folded small and tucked deep into the inner pocket.

I pulled it out, my heart already racing before I unfolded the cream-colored stationery. The handwriting was feminine, looping cursively across the page in purple ink:

*My darling W—Last night was everything I remembered and more. When you held me, it felt like coming home after years of wandering. I know this is complicated, but what we have is worth fighting for. I've left something special for you in our usual place. All my love, G.*

The letter was dated two weeks ago. Two weeks ago, when Westin had claimed he was working late on the Morrison account.

My hands shook as I refolded the letter, but instead of putting it back, I slipped it into my own pocket. Evidence. David would want to see this.

But Georgia wasn't finished with her breadcrumb trail.

That evening, while Westin showered, I opened our shared laptop to check my email. A folder I'd never seen before sat prominently on the desktop: "Insurance Updates." The name was innocuous enough, but something about its placement—front and center where I couldn't miss it—made my stomach clench.

I clicked it open.

Photos. Dozens of them. Georgia and Westin at restaurants I recognized—places he'd claimed to be meeting clients. Georgia wearing a diamond bracelet I'd never seen, her wrist draped possessively over Westin's arm. The two of them in what looked like a hotel room, her head on his chest, both of them laughing at something off-camera.

The most damning photo was timestamped from last Tuesday—the night he'd supposedly been in late meetings. Georgia wore a red dress I'd admired in a boutique window months ago, the one Westin had dismissed as "too flashy" when I'd pointed it out. Now she was wearing it, and he was looking at her like she'd hung the moon.

I scrolled through receipt after receipt saved in the same folder. Dinner at Le Bernardin—$400. A weekend at the Four Seasons—$1,200. Tiffany & Co.—$3,500. All charged to our joint credit card, all while he'd been telling me we needed to "tighten our belts."

The shower was still running. I quickly forwarded everything to my personal email, then deleted the sent messages from the laptop's history. My hands moved with mechanical precision, but inside, I was screaming.

Georgia wanted me to find these things. She was marking her territory, showing me exactly how thoroughly she'd infiltrated my life. The realization should have devastated me, but instead, it crystallized my resolve.

Two could play this game.

* * *

I spent the next week in careful preparation, working with David to craft documents that would look routine but serve my ultimate purpose. The papers were masterfully disguised—formatted to look like standard insurance beneficiary updates, complete with official letterhead and legal jargon that would make most people's eyes glaze over.

"The key," David explained during our clandestine meeting at a coffee shop across town, "is timing and presentation. You need him distracted, rushed, thinking about something else entirely."

"That won't be hard," I said bitterly. "These days, he's always thinking about someone else."

David slid the documents across the table. "Everything's here. Property division, asset allocation, spousal support waiver. Once he signs these, the marriage is effectively dissolved, and you retain full ownership of all marital assets."

I stared at the innocuous-looking papers. "And he'll have nothing?"

"Nothing but the debt he's accumulated on his personal credit cards," David confirmed. "Which, based on those receipts you showed me, is substantial."

The morning I chose was perfect in its ordinariness. Westin rushed through his usual routine—coffee, shower, checking his phone with that secretive smile that used to puzzle me but now made perfect sense. His fingers flew across the screen, probably texting Georgia about their plans for the day.

"Honey," I called from the kitchen island, spreading the papers casually next to his coffee cup. "I need you to sign these before you leave. Insurance company needs updated beneficiary forms."

Westin barely glanced up from his phone. "What kind of beneficiary forms?"

"Life insurance, disability, the usual," I said, handing him a pen. "Just routine updates. They're threatening to cancel our policies if we don't get these back by today."

He was already reaching for the pen, his attention split between my words and whatever message had just arrived on his phone. I watched his face light up as he read it—probably Georgia telling him she missed him already.

"Where do I sign?" he asked, still not really looking at the documents.

I pointed to each signature line, my voice steady despite the hammering of my heart. "Here, here, and initial there."

Westin scrawled his signature with practiced efficiency, the same signature that had once meant forever on our marriage certificate. Now it was signing that promise away.

"Done," he announced, already pocketing his phone and grabbing his keys. "I'll be late tonight. Big presentation tomorrow."

He kissed my cheek—a perfunctory gesture that felt like a mockery—and headed for the door.

"Have a good day," I called after him, my voice betraying nothing of the triumph surging through my veins.

The door closed behind him with a soft click. I stared at the signed documents, Westin's familiar handwriting sealing his fate in blue ink.

He had no idea he'd just signed away everything.