The director finally found his voice.
“Turn that off!” he barked toward the AV booth.
But he was too late.
A fourth slide appeared, this time a scanned reimbursement form signed by Daniel, authorizing two “crisis communications consulting fees” to LMX Strategic Relations for dates that matched exactly with one of the weekends you already knew he had spent in Monterrey with Lorena. On the right side of the screen, whoever built the slideshow had placed the hotel folio, the minibar charges, the spa charge for two, and a photo of Daniel in the lobby mirror wearing the navy shirt you bought him for your last wedding anniversary.
A low sound escaped somebody near the back tables.
It might have been a laugh. It might have been horror. At that point, they sounded almost the same.
You could have stepped back then.
You could have let the room unravel itself around Daniel and watched in silence while whatever anonymous hand had hijacked the event finished the job. Maybe that would have been enough for some women. Maybe once, for you, it would have been too. But you had spent six months swallowing your rage in measured doses, sorting lies into folders, building proof with the patience of a forensic accountant and the heartbeat of a betrayed wife.
You did not come here to be decorative.
So when Daniel reached the foot of the stage and said your name through clenched teeth, you lifted the microphone before he could take it.
