I hear them before I see them. A sound I know too well from the other side of our bedroom door — and for one suspended second, I tell myself it is the television. Uche always leaves the television on. I open the door. Sade is in my bed. Sade, who came to our wedding. Sade, who ate my jollof rice at every dinner party and told me I was lucky to have a man like Uche. She grabs the sheet. Uche sits up slowly, and his face does something I have never seen it do before — it calculates. "Zanele." His voice is steady. "Calm down. It is not what you think." I look at him. I look at her. I look at the indent my own body made in that mattress every night for four years. "Get out of my house," I say. I mean Sade, but I am not sure I don't mean him too. Uche stands. He is already composing himself, shoulders settling back, chin lifting. "This is my house. My name is on the deed. And before you do something you'll regret — the company is in my name too. You own nothing, Zanele. Nothing." I turn and walk to my home office. My hands are steady, which surprises me. I pull my coat from the hook, shove my phone into the pocket, and sweep my eyes across the desk. There is a small USB drive sitting in the corner — I grab it without thinking, close my fist around it, and keep moving. Uche follows me into the hallway. He is still talking. His voice follows me down the stairs, through the sitting room with its expensive furniture I chose, past the Ankara wall hanging I designed myself. "You have nothing without me," he calls. "You built nothing. I let you play at this." I open the front door. Lagos night air hits my face — warm, diesel-thick, indifferent. I step outside and pull the door shut behind me. I do not look back. The USB drive presses hard into my palm and I have no idea what is on it. ---