Ethan wasn’t confused.
He wasn’t trapped.
He was participating.
I went into my office, locked the door, and opened my laptop.
Three years earlier, before marrying Ethan, I had created a private digital archive.
It was something my father had taught me.
“People remember emotions differently,” he always said. “Documents don’t.”
I had saved everything.
Messages.
Emails.
Financial records.
Travel schedules.
At first, I searched only for Margaret.
Then I searched Ethan.
And within twenty minutes, I found something that made my hands go cold.
Six months before our wedding, Ethan had transferred ownership of a small property into Margaret’s name.
The property had belonged to him.
Or at least, that was what I thought.
But the transfer date caught my attention.
It was two days after I told Ethan I wanted to start trying for a baby.
I opened the documents.
