Marcus read the document twice, his hands beginning to shake. It was not a divorce filing. It was worse, for him. It was a court order granting me sole residential authority over the house, and stapled beneath it was a forensic accounting summary Denise had prepared from the receipts he’d left in his own office drawers. Every hotel, every flight for Kaylee, every piece of jewelry logged as a business expense, itemized and totaled. “You went through my files,” he said, his voice thin. “You can’t use these. These are company documents.” “They’re marital documents,” I said. “You paid for a month in Portugal with money the court now considers dissipated marital assets. Denise says that’s a word you’ll be hearing a lot.”

Behind him, Kaylee had gone very still, her luxury suitcase forgotten by the door. “Marcus,” she said slowly, “what does dissipated mean?” He ignored her. He was still staring at the second page, the one that traced the company’s original ninety-thousand-dollar seed capital back to my mother’s inheritance, and the home’s down payment to the same account. “This is my company,” he said, but the certainty had drained out of it. “I built it.” “You built it with my mother’s money,” I said. “You just never imagined I kept the records. You were always so sure I’d protect you. Right up until you announced our open marriage to fifteen neighbors holding paper plates.”