I didn't go to the amusement park.

Saturday morning, Dylan took Lily out.

I opened the laptop and logged into his cloud account, still synced to the iPad at home.

He must have thought he'd changed the password the night before.

But he didn't know the iPad's auto-sync hadn't disconnected yet.

Every photo in the encrypted folder was right there.

I went through them one by one.

Two hundred and thirty-seven.

From a newborn's hospital bracelet to a second birthday cake.

The bracelet read: Mother—Natalie Voss. October 7, 2022. Female. 7 lbs 1 oz.

October 7, 2022.

Lily's birthday was September 29, 2022.

Meaning eight days after I gave birth to Lily, this woman named Natalie Voss had a baby too.

I zoomed in on the bracelet photo. The photographer's shadow fell across the white hospital bed.

The shadow was a man's.

I checked the photo's EXIF data.

Camera: iPhone 14 Pro Max.

Dylan had gotten a new phone in early October 2022.

He'd told me his old one broke.

I kept scrolling.

Photo forty-two. The girl at four months, lying on her stomach on a dark gray play mat. Through the window behind her, half a building logo was visible.

I recognized that logo.

It was the building where Dylan's office was.

Photo seventy-eight. Seven months old, sitting in a high chair eating puree. A man's hand feeding her.

Nothing on the ring finger.

Dylan wore his wedding band at home.

And outside.

Unless he was somewhere he didn't need to wear it.

Photo one-fifty-six. The girl's first birthday. A pink castle cake with one candle, a bouquet of baby's breath beside it.

The bakery name on the box: "Sweet Spot Bakery."

I pulled up Dylan's credit card statement from last October.

October 6: Sweet Spot Bakery, $388.

October 7: Flower shop, $260.

That same day, he'd told me there was a company retreat and he'd be away overnight.

I exported every photo from the iPad to a USB drive.

Then I restored the cloud login to its original state, touched nothing else.

I picked up my phone and texted my best friend Sophie: I need you to investigate someone. Natalie Voss.

Sophie worked at the county records office.

Twenty minutes later, she replied.

Natalie Voss, twenty-six. Address on file: Maple Ridge Apartments, Building 7, Unit 1802.

One property in her name.

Registered in March 2022.

I was seven months pregnant at the time.

Then Sophie sent another message: I can't pull the down payment source, but you could request the purchase agreement from the Real Estate Registration Center. If Dylan handled it through Sterling Realty, his staff ID would be on the contract.

I stared at the message, fingers ice-cold.

He was a real estate agent.

Helping people buy property was his job.

Helping his mistress buy property was just an extension of it.

Monday morning, I took a half-day off and went to the Real Estate Registration Center.

The purchase agreement was pulled.

Under the agent field: Dylan Ashford's name and ID number.

Down payment: $45,000.

Only Natalie Voss's name was on the contract.

But the agent's signature was unmistakably Dylan's handwriting—he always dragged the last stroke of his "d" a little too long.

I photographed everything and saved it to an encrypted album.

From the Real Estate Registration Center, I didn't go back to work.

I took a cab to Maple Ridge Apartments.

Building 7. Unit 1802.

Elevator to the eighteenth floor, end of the hallway, turn right.

Outside the door sat a pair of little pink sandals and a pair of men's slippers.

Gray. Size eleven.

Dylan wore a size eleven.

I didn't knock.

After standing there about five minutes, a child's laughter drifted through the door, followed by a woman's voice: "Rosie, sweetie, put the blocks back."

Rosie.

He hadn't even bothered to come up with a different name.

He'd used the same name for the child he kept hidden and the lie he'd told me.

Or rather, the "Rosie from the children's home" was modeled on this child all along.

I took a photo of the slippers by the door, turned around, and left.

Back home, I went through every bank statement Dylan had for the past three years.

He had three accounts.

His payroll went through me—$23,000 a month, of which he transferred $20,000 for living expenses and the mortgage.

But his commission account and bonus account—he'd never let me see those.

I only knew he earned close to $500,000 a year.

Now it was clear: roughly half went to Natalie's household, half to mine and Lily's.

How fair of him.

I compiled every bank statement screenshot and emailed them to myself.

Then I took my laptop to a law firm.

The attorney who met with me was Harriet Pemberton—a woman in her forties who'd handled divorce cases for fifteen years.

After reviewing the materials I'd organized, she said one thing: "Your evidence chain is almost there, but not quite."

"The photo geotags, the agent signature, the credit card charges, the slippers—all circumstantial."

"You need direct evidence. Something proving that child is his."

"Like a paternity test?"

"Ideally. But you can't get samples from him and the child—they won't cooperate."

Harriet thought for a moment. "There's another way. Get the child's birth certificate."

"Would it have the father's name?"

"Not necessarily. If he wanted to stay off the record, it might only list the mother. But the birth certificate gives you the child's identity information, and from there you can check whether a paternity test was ever filed with the court."

"If he ever established legal paternity, there's almost certainly a test on record."

I thanked Harriet and called Sophie that afternoon.

"Natalie has a daughter. Nickname Rosie. Born October 7, 2022. Can you check the child's records?"

At nine that evening, Sophie called back.

Her voice was heavy.

"Claire, the child has a birth record on file."

"Listed under Natalie Voss. Father field is blank."

"But—" she paused. "In April 2023, there's a court-ordered paternity test."

"The petitioner was Dylan Ashford."

"Result: confirmed."

Confirmed.

His biological child.

I sat on the living room couch, the phone screen lighting up my face.

The living room was dark. Lily was already asleep. Dylan still wasn't home.

He'd texted that he was working late.

Before, I'd always reply: Come home soon.

Tonight I didn't.

He didn't send a second text either.

The next afternoon, I brought my laptop to Harriet's office and laid out everything Sophie had found.

Harriet wrote a few lines in her notebook. "The paternity test record, combined with the photo geotags, the purchase agreement, and the financial records—your evidence chain is solid."

"But if you want maximum leverage, you need one more thing."

"What?"

"Direct evidence of an intimate relationship between him and Natalie Voss. Chat logs, or surveillance footage of them entering and leaving that apartment together."

"I can't get into his phone. After I asked him about it, he changed all his passwords."

"Then go for the surveillance. Maple Ridge is a newer complex—the building entrance and elevator cameras will have footage. Request it from building management."

"Why would they give it to me?"

Harriet looked at me. "You're the legal spouse of the property occupant's partner. If the down payment came from marital assets, you have a right to know."

"Have your friend trace that $45,000—find out which of Dylan's accounts it came from. If it's a post-marriage account, you go straight to the court for a discovery order."

I called Sophie.

The next day, she told me the $45,000 down payment came from Dylan's commission account, wired in three installments through an intermediary account before landing in Natalie's home-purchase escrow.

The intermediary account belonged to Derek Holloway.

Dylan's colleague.

The same Derek Holloway who'd posted that housewarming photo from Maple Ridge on Instagram.

My husband, while I was seven months pregnant, had used our marital assets to buy his mistress an apartment—laundered through his colleague.

How thorough.

Harriet helped me obtain a court discovery order.

The day I received it, I went to Maple Ridge building management.

The property manager took one look at the order and didn't push back. He pulled up the entrance and elevator surveillance for Building 7, Unit 2.

From March 2022 to the present, Dylan's visits were crystal clear.

Three or four times a week at most.

Once a week at least.

Never a single gap.

One clip I watched for a long time.

October 7, 2022. 2:15 a.m.

Dylan stepped out of unit 1802, carrying a bouquet of baby's breath.

Before the elevator doors closed, a young woman in a nightgown leaned out and kissed him on tiptoe.

He smiled—genuinely happy.

That was the day Natalie gave birth.

And the eighth day after my delivery, the night I got up alone to warm Lily's bottle.

I remembered he'd said he was on the night shift and wouldn't be home.

I'd said okay.

I copied all the surveillance footage.

Went home and cooked dinner as usual.

Dylan arrived at seven. Changed shoes, washed hands, sat down, complimented my slow-cooked ribs.

Lily was beside him calling for Daddy to feed her.

He fed her bite by bite, dropping a kiss on her forehead now and then.

"Honey, it's Mom's birthday this weekend. How about this place?" He handed me his phone—a Japanese restaurant on the screen.

"Sure."

I put a piece of rib in my mouth.

Across from me, he chatted and laughed like nothing had happened.

And maybe, in his world, nothing had.

Two homes. Two daughters. Two lives.

He switched between them seamlessly.