Nancy's palm hit the table so hard the crystal glasses jumped.
"How dare you." Her voice filled the room. "After everything this family has done for you. After Desmond gave you a home, a name, a place in society—"
"I had a home," I said quietly. "I'm standing in it."
She didn't hear me. She was already building momentum, her face flushed, one hand clutching her pearls. "You ungrateful, selfish girl. We welcomed you. We treated you like a daughter. And this is how you repay us?"
Uncle Walter pushed back from the table. "This is insane. Desmond, your wife's lost her mind."
Desmond hadn't moved. He sat very still, the divorce papers in front of him. Then he laughed. It was a good laugh. Warm. A little sad. The kind of laugh that said he was the reasonable one, the patient one, the one trying so hard to hold things together.
"Baby," he said, looking at me with soft eyes. "I know you've been emotional lately. It's okay. We all get overwhelmed sometimes."
He picked up the papers. He tore them in half. Slowly. Deliberately. The sound of ripping paper cut through the room.
"We'll talk about this later," he said. "In private. Like adults."
Aunt Deborah nodded sharply. "Yes. This is not the time or place for hysterics."
"Hysterics," another cousin echoed, shaking his head.
Milani leaned back in the armchair. She touched her belly. She smiled at me. It was a small smile. Victorious.
I looked around the table. At all of them. Nodding. Agreeing. Already dismissing me.
I picked up the remote.
The television on the wall flickered to life. The screen glowed blue for a second. Then the image resolved.
It was my bedroom. The one I shared with Desmond. The angle was high, looking down from the bookshelf where I'd hidden the camera inside a decorative box three years ago. The timestamp in the corner read six months ago. Two in the afternoon. A Tuesday.
Desmond was on the bed. Milani was with him.
The room went silent.
I didn't look at the screen. I looked at them. At Nancy, frozen with her mouth half open. At Uncle Walter, his face going pale. At Aunt Deborah, her hand pressed to her chest like she was having trouble breathing.
At Milani. Her smile was gone.
The audio came through the speakers. Clear. High definition. Desmond's voice, low and rough. "God, I needed this."
Milani's laugh. Breathy. Pleased. "Does she know you're here?"
"She's at her parents'. Playing the good daughter." A pause. Sounds I didn't need to describe. Then Desmond again, quieter. "I can't wait to get rid of her."
Milani's voice, teasing. "Your wife?"
"The cash register." He laughed. "That's all she is. A walking bank account. Too stupid to see it."
"And when you do get rid of her?"
"Then it's you and me, baby. You, me, and all her money."
More sounds. More laughter. Then Desmond again. "This kid you're carrying? That's the insurance policy with legs. Nancy's already planning it. Once the baby's here, Giana's useless. We'll have the heir. We'll have her assets. And she'll be... gone."
"Gone," Milani repeated. She sounded uncertain.
"One way or another."
I pressed pause.
The frozen image stayed on the screen. Desmond's face. Milani's hand on his chest.
No one spoke.
I turned to look at them. Nancy's face had gone white. Her hand was still on her pearls, gripping them so tight I thought the strand might break.
Uncle Walter stared at the television like it was showing him something in a foreign language.
Aunt Deborah's mouth moved, but no sound came out.
Milani was staring at the screen. At herself. At Desmond's face. At the timestamp. Her hand had fallen away from her belly. She looked small suddenly. Smaller than she'd looked when she walked in.
"Insurance policy with legs," I said softly. "That's what he called your baby."
She didn't answer. She just kept staring.
Desmond stood up. Fast. His chair scraped against the floor. He reached for the remote.
I stepped back. I held it behind me.
"Give me that," he said. His voice was different now. Flat. Hard.
"No."
"Giana." He took a step toward me. "Give it to me. Now."
I didn't move.
He lunged.
I stepped to the side. He stumbled past me, catching himself on the edge of the table. The glasses rattled.
I pressed play.
The footage continued. More audio. More evidence. Desmond talking about my money. About the prenup he thought didn't exist. About how easy it was to make me believe he loved me.
About how much easier it would be once I was dead.
I let it play to the end. All twelve minutes.
No one moved. No one spoke.
The screen went black.
I set the remote on the table.
"That," I said quietly, "is why he's leaving with nothing."