The phone rang at 2:47 AM. I didn't need to look at the screen to know who it was. The same person who'd called at midnight three days ago. The same person who'd interrupted our anniversary dinner last month. The same person whose name had become a knife twisting in my chest every time it lit up Marcus's phone. Sophia. Beside me, Marcus stirred, his hand already reaching for the nightstand. In the dim glow of his screen, I watched his face transform from sleepy confusion to alert concern. That expression—the one he used to reserve for me when I was sick or upset—now belonged to her. "Sophie? What's wrong?" His voice carried that gentle urgency that once made me feel cherished. I closed my eyes and counted. One. Two. Three. "Of course. Yeah, I understand. It's a difficult case. I'll be there in twenty." The mattress shifted as he sat up. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even, playing the role of the oblivious wife. I'd perfected it over the past six months. "Lena?" He whispered, touching my shoulder. "Babe, I have to go in. Emergency prep. I'll be back before breakfast." I didn't respond. What was there to say that I hadn't already said a hundred times? The closet door opened. Hangers scraped. The familiar rustle of him dressing in the dark, trying to be quiet, trying to be considerate. As if consideration could make up for the fact that he'd left our bed for her seventeen times in the past month. Yes, I'd counted. The front door clicked shut at 3:02 AM. I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, tracing the shadows cast by the streetlight outside. Our bedroom felt cavernous without him, though I'd grown accustomed to the emptiness. What I hadn't grown accustomed to was the ache in my chest, the one that had calcified into something harder, colder. I picked up my phone and opened the folder I'd created six weeks ago. Screenshots. Timestamps. A meticulous record of every late-night call, every "emergency," every time Sophia's name appeared on his screen. My friend Rachel, a private investigator, had told me I was building a case like a lawyer. "You're too calm about this," she'd said over coffee last week. "Most women would've confronted him by now." But I wasn't most women. And I needed to be sure. I pulled up the last photo in the folder. The one that had finally broken something fundamental inside me. Marcus and Sophia, taken by a mutual colleague at the funeral home's holiday party last month. His arm around her waist. Her head tilted toward his shoulder. Both of them laughing at some private joke. The caption read: "Reunited and it feels so good! College sweethearts back together!" Back together. I'd asked him about the party. He'd said it was boring, that he'd left early, that he'd missed me. He'd kissed my forehead and suggested we watch our favorite show. We'd fallen asleep on the couch, his fingers intertwined with mine, and I'd almost convinced myself I was being paranoid. Then I'd seen the photo. I didn't sleep after that. Instead, I made lists. Divided assets in my head. Mentally sorted through seven years of marriage, separating mine from his from ours. By the time dawn crept through the curtains, I'd made my decision. Marcus came home at 6:15 AM, smelling like formaldehyde and something else—jasmine perfume that definitely wasn't mine. He found me at the kitchen table, already dressed, coffee growing cold in front of me. "Hey, you're up early." He smiled, that boyish grin that had made me fall in love with him in the first place. "I thought I'd beat you home, make you breakfast as an apology for leaving." "I want a divorce." The words hung in the air between us, sharp and final. His smile faltered, then disappeared entirely. "What?" "I want a divorce, Marcus. I've already contacted a lawyer." He laughed—actually laughed—a confused, disbelieving sound. "Lena, what are you talking about? Is this about last night? I explained, it was an emergency. We had a body come in that needed immediate preparation for a morning viewing. I can't just—" "I'm not discussing this. I'm informing you." I slid a business card across the table. "Have your lawyer contact mine. I'd like to file by