The ballet shoes are still warm from Ivy's feet when I pull up to Marcus's building. She forgot them after our rushed morning—my fault, not hers. At six years old, she shouldn't have to remember everything while her mother falls apart. The recital is in four days. She needs to practice. I tell myself that's why I'm here. Not because I've been driving past this building for three days, the unsigned divorce papers burning a hole in my bag. Not because I need to see proof one more time before I destroy everything. The doorman waves me through. He knows me—Mrs. Calloway, the wife who shows up unannounced because her husband is "so busy" he forgets to answer texts. I smile the smile I've perfected over eight years of marriage. Gracious. Understanding. Completely fine. The elevator mirrors show a woman who still looks put together. Blonde hair smoothed into a low ponytail. Minimal makeup. The kind of effortless polish that actually takes effort. Marcus used to say I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. I wonder if he says that to Jade now. The penthouse hallway is empty when I step out. I reach for my keys, then stop. Something makes me pull out my phone instead, open the security app Marcus insisted we install after a break-in two buildings over. He wanted me to feel safe when he traveled for work. The camera feed loads. I can see the front door, the slice of living room beyond it. I watch as the door opens. Jade steps inside. Marcus's executive assistant—twenty-six, efficient, always wearing those sharp blazers that make her look older than she is. Her dark hair is loose today, falling past her shoulders in waves I've never seen at the office. She doesn't use a key. She presses her finger to the biometric lock, and it opens immediately. My hand tightens around the phone. That lock cost three thousand dollars. Marcus programmed it himself. Only family, he said. Only us. I watch Jade walk into my home like she lives there. Marcus appears from the kitchen, and my breath catches. He's laughing—that real laugh, the one I haven't heard in months. The one I thought he'd lost to work stress and his mother's declining health and all the excuses he's given me for why he's been distant. He hands Jade a coffee mug. The blue one. My blue one, the one I brought from my apartment before we got married because it was the only thing my grandmother left me. Jade takes it without hesitation. I should go in. I should open that door and confront them both. But I can't move. I can only watch through this tiny screen as my husband touches Jade's shoulder—casual, familiar—and says something that makes her smile. Then Ivy's voice cuts through: "Daddy! Can I have the iPad?" My daughter runs into frame, still in her school uniform. Marcus scoops her up, spinning her once before setting her down. "Only if you promise to practice your spelling words after." "Mommy says I'm getting really good!" "Mommy says a lot of things." Marcus's voice is light, playful, but something in it makes my skin crawl. "She worries too much. You're doing fine, princess." Ivy giggles and runs off. Jade steps closer to Marcus, close enough that anyone watching would know exactly what they are to each other. "She still doesn't suspect anything?" Jade's voice is barely audible through the phone speaker. "Sienna? Please." Marcus's laugh is sharp now, cruel. "She's too busy playing perfect mother to notice what's happening in her own house. Yesterday she called me about a door code—a door code—like I'm supposed to drop everything because she's paranoid." The coffee mug. The lock. The way he said my name like it tastes bitter. My hand moves to my bag before I realize what I'm doing. The divorce papers are exactly where I left them three days ago, folded into a manila envelope. I've read them so many times I've memorized every word. Joint custody. Asset division. Irreconcilable differences. I couldn't serve them. Every time I tried, I thought about Ivy. About what this would do to her. About whether I was overreacting, whether I was wrong. But I'm not wrong. I open the envelope. Pull out the papers. The pen is clipped to the side—I've been carrying it like a loaded gun, waiting for the moment I'd be brave enough to pull the trigger. The door opens before I can talk myself out of it. Marcus looks up, startled. "Sienna? What are you—" "Ivy forgot her ballet shoes." I hold them up with one hand. The divorce papers are in the other, clearly visible. "And you forgot to mention you gave Jade access to our home." Jade freezes. She's wearing my apron—the one with the faded floral print that I've had since culinary school. The one Marcus always said was too worn out to keep. "Mommy!" Ivy barrels toward me, and I catch her with the arm holding the shoes, careful to keep the papers out of her line of sight. "Hey, baby. I brought your shoes." "Sienna." Marcus's voice is all smooth concern now, the tone he uses with clients. "This isn't what it looks like. You're being dramatic about a door—" "Sign them." I hold out the papers. His face goes blank. "What?" "The divorce papers. I'm serving you now. Sign them." For three seconds, nobody moves. Then Marcus laughs—that same cruel laugh from the video—and reaches for the papers. "You've been carrying these around?" He flips through them, and something in his expression shifts. "For three days, according to the date. Jesus, Sienna. You really are losing it." He tears them in half. Then he tears them again. The pieces flutter to the floor between us, and Jade's hand moves to her stomach in a gesture so instinctive, so protective, that I know the truth before Marcus opens his mouth. "Mommy?" Ivy tugs my sleeve. "Why is Daddy ripping paper?" I look at my daughter. At my husband. At the woman wearing my apron in my kitchen. At the pieces of my marriage scattered across the floor. "Because," I say quietly, "Daddy and I need to have a very long talk."