«I haven’t liked you since our first night!» — my husband announced during our anniversary celebration….

A soft melody began, our first dance song. The opening frame showed me in my wedding dress, twirling in slow motion, smiling at a man I thought I loved. And Daniel, staring back, his expression unreadable.

The room hushed. I could feel the tension folding in on itself. There were whispers behind me.

Is this their wedding video? Is this part of the program? My hands were still at my sides, my jaw steady. I stared at the screen like it wasn’t my life playing out in front of a hundred frozen stairs. Daniel’s face turned pale.

Victoria, what is this? he asked again, louder this time. I didn’t look at him. Instead, I let the next chapter of our carefully constructed lie play out for all to see.

What he didn’t know, what no one knew, was that this wasn’t just a montage, it was an indictment. And we were just getting started. Three days before the anniversary, I came home early with a migraine.

That morning had started like any other. Coffee in the Langford kitchen. Chloe heading off to school.

Daniel halfway through some business call with his assistant. I told him I wasn’t feeling well and he barely looked up. Go rest, he mumbled, scrolling through his phone.

I returned around noon. The penthouse was unusually quiet, like it was holding its breath. I headed straight to the bedroom, kicked off my heels, and was just about to crawl into bed when I noticed it.

Daniel’s phone, sitting on the nightstand, unlocked, alone, and utterly unlike him. Daniel never left his phone unattended. He carried it like it was fused to his body.

I stared at it for a few seconds too long. Then I picked it up. The screen lit up instantly.

A new message preview blinked across the top. Can’t wait to try on the new set. You said Red was your favorite.

The sender’s name read Kitten. My throat closed. I hesitated.

And then, with hands that had studied a thousand charity galas and boardroom speeches, I unlocked it. Chloe’s birthday. Daniel never bothered to change his passcode.

The text thread opened into a minefield of betrayal. Photos. Messages.

Voice notes. All of them from Ashley Monroe, his 28-year-old executive assistant. I hate pretending you’re just my boss, she wrote.

I hate seeing you go home to her. Just three more days, Daniel replied in one message. Let her have her anniversary.

The second it’s over, I’m done playing house. Another message followed. Don’t worry about the prenup.

My attorney says if I wait until after the anniversary, I can walk away with half. Half. My name.

My home. My child’s future. I sank onto the edge of the bed, the phone clutched in my hand like it was burning through my skin.

The photographs. Daniel and Ashley at the Four Seasons. In his office after hours.

One of them in what I recognized as my robe. I didn’t cry, not then. I just felt something inside me shift, like a door slamming shut in a house I didn’t realize was haunted.

The next morning I met someone for coffee. Not a friend. Not a lawyer.

A man named Miles Grayson, a former federal investigator turned private detective. We’d met once before, years ago, when he helped my father expose a corporate embezzlement ring. I told him everything, quietly, methodically, like I was reciting someone else’s life.

He listened without interruption, only nodding now and then. So, what do you want exactly, he asked finally, pen poised over his notepad. I looked him in the eye and said I want proof.

I want timelines. I want photos, locations, conversations, everything. He leaned back, tapping his pen against the table…