Diana meets me at a coffee shop in Brooklyn. Not our usual place. Somewhere Barrett would never go. Exposed brick walls and baristas with forearm tattoos. She slides into the booth across from me and doesn't order anything.
"Show me," she says.
I open my phone. Pull up the encrypted drive. Pass it across the table.
She scrolls in silence. Her face doesn't change. She's good at that. Seven years producing my show taught her how to hear the worst things people say and never flinch.
After five minutes, she sets the phone down.
"Jesus, Hope."
"I know."
"No, I mean—" She leans forward. "This is airtight. Dates, timestamps, location data. The recordings are clear. And that photo—" She stops. Shakes her head. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Help me."
Her eyes sharpen. "Help you how?"
I tell her about the Golden Mic Awards. Six weeks away. Nationally televised. Every major outlet streaming live. The biggest night of my career.
"I'm going to play the recordings," I say. "On stage. In front of everyone."
Diana goes very still. Then a slow smile spreads across her face. "You're going to burn him down."
"I'm going to let him burn himself down. I'm just providing the match."
She picks up my phone again. Studies the file structure. "We'll need these cleaned up. Background noise reduced. I can handle that. We'll also need to verify the venue's audio system. Make sure we can patch directly into the broadcast feed without them cutting us off."
"Can you do that?"
"I know a guy who freelances their tech. Owes me a favor." She taps the screen. "We should also loop in your lawyer. Make sure we're not opening you up to a wiretapping charge."
"Already did. New York's a one-party consent state. I'm legally allowed to record conversations I'm part of."
"You're not part of these conversations."
"I'm in my own home. He has no reasonable expectation of privacy." I recite it exactly the way my lawyer said it. "And the photo synced from his phone to our shared cloud. He made it accessible to me."
Diana nods slowly. "You've thought this through."
"I've had time."
She reaches across the table. Squeezes my hand once. "I'm in. Whatever you need."
I squeeze back. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. This is going to get ugly."
"Good," I say. "It should."
---
That night, Barrett works late. Or says he does. I don't ask anymore. I stopped asking three weeks ago.
I make myself dinner. Roasted vegetables and quinoa. I eat at the kitchen island with my laptop open, reviewing the Golden Mic Awards program. My acceptance speech is scheduled for nine forty-five p.m. Prime time. Peak viewership.
Perfect.
I'm rinsing my plate when I hear his key in the lock. I glance at the clock. Eleven thirty. He's getting careless with his timing.
"Hey," he calls. "You still up?"
"Just finishing the dishes."
He drops his bag in the hall. I hear him kick off his shoes. He doesn't pick them up. He never picks them up.
He comes into the kitchen and kisses the top of my head. "You didn't have to wait up."
"I wasn't waiting. Just couldn't sleep."
"Everything okay?" He opens the fridge. Pulls out a beer.
"Fine. Just thinking about the awards."
"That's coming up, right?" He twists off the cap. "When is it again?"
"Six weeks."
"You nervous?"
"A little."
He leans against the counter. "You'll be great. You always are."
I dry my hands on a towel. Fold it precisely. Hang it on the oven handle. "Will you come?"
He hesitates. Just a beat. But I catch it. "Of course. Wouldn't miss it."
Liar.
"Good," I say. "It means a lot."
He smiles. Drinks his beer. Scrolls through his phone with his free hand. I watch him in the reflection of the microwave door. His face lit blue by the screen. Texting someone. Smiling at whatever they said.
I turn away. "I'm going to bed."
"I'll be there in a minute."
I know he won't. He'll stay up another hour texting Leilany. Then he'll slip into bed and fall asleep instantly, the way guilty people somehow always do.
I walk to the bedroom. Close the door. Sit on the edge of the mattress with my phone in my hands.
One new file to add to the drive. Diana sent it an hour ago. The venue's audio system specs. A detailed schematic of how to patch into the broadcast feed. A note at the bottom: *This will work. Call me tomorrow.*
I save it. Close the app. Lie down on top of the covers.
Through the door, I hear Barrett laugh. That laugh. The one I used to love.
I close my eyes. Count the recessed lights on the ceiling behind my eyelids. One, two, three, four.
Six more weeks.
---
Two nights later, Barrett takes a call in his home office. I'm in the hallway outside. Back against the wall. Phone in my hand. Voice Memos app open. Recording.
His voice comes through the door warm and easy. The voice he used to use with me.
"I know, babe. I miss you too."
A pause. I picture Leilany on the other end. Pouting. Playing the role she's so good at.
"She's asleep," Barrett says. "She goes to bed at ten like clockwork. It's honestly kind of relentless."
My jaw tightens. I don't move.
"Yeah, everything has to be perfect. Color-coded hangers. Alphabetized spices. It's exhausting." He laughs. "I swear she probably organizes my underwear drawer when I'm not looking."
Then Leilany's voice, faint but unmistakable through his speakerphone: *"She's so boring, Barrett. Honestly, I don't know how you survived seven years with that woman. She probably color-codes your underwear drawer."*
Barrett laughs. Really laughs. The sound fills the hallway.
"You're not wrong," he says. "God, you're not wrong."
I close my eyes. Just once. Then I open them.
My hand is steady on the phone. The recording timer ticks upward. Two minutes. Three.
"I can't wait to see you tomorrow," Barrett says. "Wear the bracelet."
I stop the recording. Save it. Rename it: *Final._Leilany._Boring_Wife.mp3*
Then I walk to the bedroom. Lie down in the dark. Stare at the ceiling.
Somewhere in his office, Barrett is still laughing.
I'm not laughing.
But in six weeks, I will be.
