The timestamp in the bottom right corner read October fourteenth, at nine-fifteen in the evening.

Another photo showed them checking out the next morning, kissing openly near the elevator doors.

“This is exactly what Jerome needs,” I said.

“There’s more,” Rachel said, tapping the folder with her fingernail.

“I managed to get the itemized room service receipts too.”

“They ordered champagne and strawberries at midnight,” she added.

“Paid for with his corporate card, which is tied to your joint liability account.”

I stared at the receipts, feeling a cold, hard anger settle in my chest.

My husband had been funding his affair with our shared credit lines while I was working late shifts to pay off our mortgage.

“You’re going to destroy him, Avery,” Rachel said softly.

“No,” I replied, sliding the papers back into the envelope.

“He destroyed himself. I’m just showing everyone the wreckage.”

My phone buzzed in my coat pocket, vibrating against my thigh.

I pulled it out and saw another bank alert.

A charge of twelve thousand dollars at a high-end furniture gallery had just been authorized.