I went back to the house on Thursday.
I told myself I was looking for documents. Bank statements. Emails. Anything that might show Cassius had been planning this. But really, I just needed to see the space. Our space. The place I'd lived for ten years.
I used my key. The lock turned smooth. I stepped into the foyer.
Voices came from the kitchen. Female. Laughing.
I walked down the hall. Stopped in the doorway.
Rosalie was at the stove. Stirring something in a pot. Ariella sat at the island, scrolling through her phone. They both looked up when I entered.
Rosalie smiled. Thin. Cold. "Laurel."
I didn't answer. I looked at the pot. At the mug beside Ariella's elbow. My mug. The one Anders made me in fourth grade, lopsided and glazed blue.
"We didn't think you'd be stopping by," Rosalie said.
I set my bag on the counter. "I live here."
"For now." She turned back to the stove.
Ariella didn't look up from her phone. Her nails were painted red. She tapped the screen with one finger. Casual. Bored.
I walked past them. Through the living room. Up the stairs. My hands were steady. My chest was tight, but my hands were steady.
The master bedroom door was open. I stepped inside.
Everything looked the same. The bed was made. Cassius's watch sat on the nightstand. My book was still on my side, bookmark halfway through.
I moved to the closet. Pulled open drawers. Checked jacket pockets. Found nothing.
I turned toward the dresser. That's when I saw it.
Behind the decorative shelf. The one with the small bronze sculpture Cassius bought in Florence. A tiny glass lens. Angled toward the bed.
I stepped closer. Crouched. The lens was no bigger than a shirt button. Professional grade. Positioned with precision.
My stomach turned.
I pulled my phone from my pocket. Opened the camera.
"Laurel."
I froze. Cassius stood in the doorway. Still in his suit. His briefcase in one hand.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
I straightened. Slid the phone back into my pocket. "Looking for documents."
"In the bedroom."
"I have a right to access our financial records."
He set the briefcase down. Stepped into the room. Closed the door behind him. "You need to stop this."
"Stop what?"
"This crusade." He gestured vaguely. "You're making things worse for everyone. Especially Anders."
I looked at him. Really looked. The patient tilt of his head. The soft, reasonable tone. The posture that said I'm trying to help you.
I'd seen him use it a hundred times. On hostile witnesses. On opposing counsel. On juries.
"You're in my way," I said.
He didn't move. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?"
"From yourself." He took a step closer. "You're not thinking clearly. You're emotional. You're going to do something you regret."
I held his gaze. "Move."
"Laurel—"
"Move."
He stayed where he was. Blocking the door. His eyes flat. Empty.
I turned. Walked to the window. Raised my phone. Took three photos of the shelf from the side angle. Clear shots of the lens.
Behind me, Cassius exhaled. Slow. Controlled. "You have no idea what you're doing."
I turned back. Walked past him. He didn't stop me this time.
I went downstairs. Rosalie and Ariella were still in the kitchen. I didn't look at them. I picked up my bag and walked out.
---
He called me Friday night.
"I'd like to take you to dinner," he said.
I was sitting in my hotel room. Papers spread across the bed. "No."
"Laurel. Please. Let's talk. Just the two of us."
I didn't answer.
"Marea. Seven o'clock tomorrow. I'll make a reservation."
He hung up before I could say no again.
---
I went.
I told myself it was strategic. He might say something useful. Slip up. Give me something I could use.
But really, I just wanted to see what he'd do.
The restaurant was warm. Candlelit. Expensive. The kind of place we used to go for anniversaries.
Cassius was already at the table. He stood when I approached. Pulled out my chair. Smiled.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
I sat. He poured me wine. I didn't touch it.
"You look tired," he said.
"I am."
He leaned back. Folded his hands on the table. "I've been thinking. About how we can resolve this. Without more damage."
"Resolve what?"
"This situation. With Anders. With us."
I waited.
"I spoke to my attorney," he said. "We can offer you a very fair settlement. An apartment in Brooklyn. Park Slope, maybe. Somewhere quiet. A monthly allowance. Enough to live comfortably. And an uncontested divorce. Clean. Simple. No drama."
He paused. His eyes on mine. Warm. Concerned.
"All you have to do," he continued, "is step back. Let me handle Anders's case. Let the system work. And sign over your shares in the firm. As restitution to Rosalie's family."
I looked at him. At the tilt of his head. The patient expression. The hand resting gently on the table.
I saw the technique. The performance. The calculated warmth.
And I saw the tell.
His eyes held mine a beat too long.
"No," I said.
His smile faltered. Just for a second. "Laurel—"
I stood. Picked up my bag. "I'm not signing anything."
"You're making a mistake."
I looked down at him. At the man I'd loved for ten years. The man I'd given up everything for.
"No," I said. "I already made the mistake. I'm fixing it now."
I walked out.
The November air was cold. Sharp. I stood on the sidewalk and breathed it in.
Something inside me had been holding on. Some last thread. Some small, stupid hope that maybe—
It was gone now.
I felt it go. Felt the weight of it lift.
I pulled my phone from my bag. Dialed.
"Nadia," I said when she picked up. "I need you to pull every financial record Cassius filed in the last five years. Bank statements. Credit cards. Everything."
"On it," she said.
I hung up. Started walking. I didn't know where I was going. I just walked.
The city moved around me. Lights. Noise. People.
I kept walking.
And for the first time in ten years, I felt like myself.
