Sign the divorce papers tonight, Elena, or I’ll make sure the partners know exactly

Daniel laughed and flipped the folder open one-handed, expecting my surrender. His smile died on the second page. “What is this?” The waiter, sensing blood, drifted away. I took a sip of water before answering. “That’s the forensic accounting report,” I said. “The one I commissioned eight months ago, after I found the second phone in your gym bag.” His jaw tightened. I kept going. “Page four is the wire transfers from your ‘consulting LLC’ to an apartment in Tribeca that isn’t ours. Page seven is the company credit card you’ve been using to fly Vanessa to Aspen — yes, I know her name, Daniel, I know her mother’s name too. Page twelve is the affidavit from your assistant, who, it turns out, hates you more than I do.” He went the color of the tablecloth. “You can’t —” “I already did,” I said. “That prenup you waved at me? It voids on documented infidelity. My lawyer flagged it the morning after our honeymoon, when you came home smelling like someone else. I just waited until the numbers got big enough to matter.” He lunged for the folder. I let him have it. “Keep that copy. The board got theirs at four o’clock today. HR got theirs at four-fifteen. Your mother — who, by the way, cosigned the Tribeca lease, bless her — got hers at five.” His phone started buzzing on the table. Then it started ringing. Then it didn’t stop. I stood up, smoothed my dress, and dropped two twenties next to my water glass. “That’s for the drink I didn’t order. I’m not your wife anymore, Daniel. I’m your case study.” I walked past the maître d’, past the elevator, out into a night that finally felt like mine. Behind me, I heard a bourbon glass shatter. I didn’t turn around. Six years of silence had just learned how to speak, and it turns out my voice carries beautifully.