That night, after Finn falls asleep clutching his stuffed triceratops, I sit alone in the living room with the lights off. Lucas is in the shower, humming. Actually humming. That’s how I know the affair isn’t just physical. Lucas only hums when he feels untouchable—when life is arranged exactly the way he wants it. I open my laptop. Step one: inventory. In my last life, I trusted joint accounts. Trusted marriage. Trusted the illusion that love made paperwork unnecessary. This time, I pull up bank statements, cloud backups, shared subscriptions, home security logs. I don’t rush. I don’t cry. I treat it like a work project—the kind I used to manage before I became “just Finn’s mom.” And then I find it. A monthly transfer. Small enough to look harmless. Regular enough to be deliberate. $2,800. Every third Friday. Labeled: Consulting Reimbursement. Riley Shore’s initials are in the memo history. I lean back slowly, letting the weight of it settle. Lucas isn’t just cheating. He’s funding her. The shower turns off. I close the laptop, heartbeat calm. When Lucas walks out in his towel, I smile up at him. “You smell nice,” I say. He grins. “New soap. You should try it.” “I will.” Later. When he’s asleep, snoring softly beside me, I slide out of bed and retrieve the small camera I ordered earlier that afternoon. It’s no bigger than a USB charger. I plug it in behind