“You insisted on an infidelity clause,” I said, keeping my back to him.

“You wanted to ensure that if I ever left you, I would leave with nothing.”

He went quiet.

The only sound in the room was the wind outside and the crackle of a fresh log catching the heat.

“But the clause was reciprocal,” I continued, turning to face him.

“And I have thirty-eight gigabytes of data from Bianca’s corporate phone.”

“Emails, text messages, flight itineraries to Saint Martin.”

“And photos, Graham.”

“Photos taken in the master bedroom of the Austin townhome you just mentioned.”

His face drained of what little color he had left.

He reached out and gripped the back of an armchair to steady himself.

His knuckles turned white against the green velvet.

“That’s not… that’s not how the clause is structured,” he stammered.

“It is,” I said.

“The assets in the trust, the personal accounts, the equity in this house.”

“If there is proven moral turpitude resulting in the dissolution of the marriage, the offending party forfeits their share.”

I watched him try to process the words.