I built the case against Marcelo the way I used to build his press releases — with precision, with timing, with the kind of ruthless attention to detail that made people forget what they were supposed to remember. The difference was that this time, I was telling the truth.

The first piece of evidence came from the joint credit card. I still had access to the statements, even after the separation. Hotel charges at the Chateau Marmont. Two dinners at Nobu Malibu. A jewelry purchase at Tiffany & Co. — a bracelet I’d never seen, never worn. All on nights Marcelo claimed to be 'working late' or 'at a director’s meeting.'

The photographs were harder. I needed proof that went beyond the TMZ shots everyone had already seen. I called an old contact at a paparazzi agency — someone who owed me a favor from the days when I’d help him get exclusive shots of Marcelo. He had more. Much more. Marcelo and Keyla in the back of a car, her head in his lap. Marcelo kissing her neck in a hotel elevator, timestamp matching perfectly with the charge for that room.

The text messages were the worst. I’d kept his old phone backups when he upgraded — standard practice for managing his social media. I found messages to Keyla dating back eight months. 'She’s at a charity thing,' he’d written. 'Come over.' And later: 'Nadia’s too busy playing manager to notice anything. She’s useful, though. Keeps everything running.' Keyla’s response: 'Poor thing. Does she know she’s just the help?' Marcelo: 'She’s too stupid to ever figure it out.'

But the phone call was the kill shot. I’d recorded it accidentally — my phone had been on his desk when he called Keyla from our penthouse. He didn’t know I was home. 'Nadia’s in the shower,' he’d said, laughing. 'She thinks I’m taking Leo to the park tomorrow. You and me, baby, we’re going to that cabin in Malibu.' Keyla’s voice, breathless: 'What if she finds out?' Marcelo: 'She won’t. She never does.'

I listened to that recording once. Then I saved it. Then I put it in a folder labeled 'Evidence.'

The night before the press conference, I stood in my father’s study at the Gramercy townhouse. The room smelled like leather and old books. I had a single sheet of paper in my hands — my statement. I read it once, out loud, to the empty room. 'My name is Nadia Howell. For seven years, I managed every aspect of Marcelo Castillo’s career...' I folded it carefully and put it in my bag. Then I went upstairs to check on Leo. He was asleep, Blue tucked under his arm. I touched his hair, soft and warm, and thought about what I was about to do. Not for revenge. For him.

The cease-and-desist letter arrived at eight the next morning. My attorney called me immediately. 'Marcelo’s team is threatening to sue if you go through with this,' she said. I was in the kitchen making coffee. 'They’re saying it’s defamation. Interference with his nomination.' I read the letter. It was three pages of legal threats, signed by a lawyer I’d never heard of. Marcelo’s new team, scrambling. I handed the letter back to my attorney. 'File it,' I said. 'And call The Plaza. Make sure the room is still ours.' She did. It was.

That afternoon, Leo had his session with Dr. Anand. I dropped him off, kissed him goodbye, and told him I’d pick him up in an hour. He didn’t look at me, but he nodded. When I came back, Dr. Anand met me in the waiting room. She had a piece of paper in her hand — a drawing. Leo had drawn himself, his mother, and Blue the triceratops. All three were smiling. 'He said he doesn’t want to talk about his father today,' Dr. Anand said quietly. 'But he told me he likes the Natural History Museum. He wants to see the blue whale again.' I took the drawing. It was the first time I’d seen him draw a smile in months. I pinned it to the refrigerator when I got home, beside his other drawings. Progress, measured in crayon strokes.

I slept that night like I hadn’t in years — deep, dreamless, complete. When I woke, it was five a.m. The Golden Globes red carpet started at seven. My press conference was scheduled for seven-thirty. Perfect timing.