"Are you sure about this? Once we trigger these protocols, there's no going back." I walked to my closet, looking at the space where half our clothes hung together. His and hers, a symbol of shared lives and mutual trust. By Sunday night, half that space would be empty, and I'd be the one who'd made it so.
"She made the choice, Marcus," I said firmly. "I'm just dealing with the consequences." The next call was to my locksmith, a man who'd worked on my office building for years and understood the value of discretion. The third call was to my accountant, activating the legal separation of assets that our prenup allowed for in cases of adultery.
The fourth call was to my assistant, canceling all weekend appointments and clearing my schedule for personal legal matters. By 10:00 a.m., I was sitting in my kitchen, surrounded by the debris of a shared life. Seven years of marriage condensed to decisions about who owned what, who'd paid for what, and what belonged to whom. The prenup was explicit.
Any assets brought into the marriage remained separate property. Any assets acquired during the marriage through commingled funds would be divided according to contribution percentages, and any property purchased solely with my income would remain mine. The house was mine, bought with money from my practice, mortgage payments made from my accounts. The BMW was hers, a gift I'd purchased for her birthday, title in her name.
The furniture was a mixture, but I had receipts for everything, organized in files that Delaney had mocked as obsessive record-keeping. I began in our bedroom, methodically packing her clothes into garbage bags. Each item told a story. The black dress she'd worn to our anniversary dinner last month.
The yoga pants she'd bought for a fitness phase that lasted exactly three weeks. The lingerie I'd never seen her wear, but that appeared on credit card statements from stores I'd never heard of. In her jewelry box, I found a receipt for a necklace I'd never seen, purchased two weeks ago, the same day she'd told me about the Los Angeles conference. The receipt was from a boutique in downtown Austin, and the timestamp showed she'd bought it during her lunch break while I was in court defending a client's asset-protection case.
The irony was so perfect it felt scripted. I found her laptop in the home office, password-protected but using the same combination she'd used for everything. Our wedding date. Her email revealed a pattern of deception that went back months.
Flirtatious exchanges with men whose names I didn't recognize. Dinner reservations at restaurants where she'd never taken me. Credit card statements for purchases that had never appeared in our house. Lucas Cain's name appeared in her search history with embarrassing frequency.
She'd researched his dating history, his net worth, his upcoming projects. She'd even looked up flight times from Austin to Los Angeles and hotel rates near the conference center. This wasn't impulse. This was premeditation.
I printed everything, organized it in folders, and added it to the growing stack of evidence that would support my case. Texas was a no-fault divorce state, but fault could still affect property division and spousal support. With documented evidence of adultery and a prenup that explicitly voided support in cases of infidelity, Delaney's legal position was catastrophic. My phone buzzed with a text from her.
"Having an amazing time. The conference sessions are incredible, and I'm learning so much. Miss you." I stared at the message, struck by its casual dishonesty. She was lying to me while actively betraying me, maintaining the fiction of our marriage while systematically destroying it.