She turned the screen toward the table, and the security footage began to load.

The tablet screen flickered, casting a cool blue light over the polished mahogany table.

On the screen, the black-and-white security footage from my private study upstairs began to play.

The time stamp in the corner read two in the morning from last Thursday.

Grant appeared on screen, wearing his gray cashmere sweater, stepping quietly through the double doors.

He did not turn on the overhead lights.

Instead, he used the flashlight on his phone to illuminate my desk drawers.

We watched him pull a ring of keys from his pocket—keys he must have copied from my ring while I slept.

He unlocked the bottom drawer, pulled out the folder containing my original prenuptial agreement, and laid it flat on the desk.

From his jacket pocket, he produced a small, high-resolution handheld scanner.

He ran the scanner slowly over the signature page, twice, ensuring the resolution was crisp.

“That is my private study,” I said, my voice steady in the quiet room.

“You had no permission to be in there, let alone to touch those files.”