He looked down at his coffee.
“I know.”
“Why didn’t you defend yourself?”
A sad smile.
“To who?”
“My parents.”
“And say what?”
“Your daughter slept with another man for seven months and gave him twenty-five thousand dollars?”
He shook his head.
“I thought Chloe would eventually tell them.”
“She didn’t.”
“I know.”
“She used your silence.”
“I know.”
His calmness irritated me.
“You should be furious.”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“I spent months furious.”
He stirred his coffee.
“Eventually I got tired.”
Then he showed me the evidence.
Not because I demanded it.
Because he knew I needed certainty.
Screenshots.
Dates.
Messages.
Hotel confirmations.
Bank records.
One transfer for ten thousand.
Another for fifteen.
Julian’s name appeared repeatedly.
Some of the messages were painful enough that I stopped reading.
I did not need the details.
The financial records were enough.
Then Ethan showed me something else.
Messages from Chloe after discovery.
Please don’t tell my parents.
Mom will never survive this.
We can handle this privately.
You owe me that.
I looked at Ethan.
“You agreed?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I loved your family.”
The sentence hurt.
He continued.
“I thought keeping it private was kinder.”
“Then she told everyone you were abusive.”
“I found out later.”
“Why not correct them?”
Ethan looked exhausted.
“Because divorce already felt like a full-time job.”
He pushed the phone away.
“I didn’t want a public war.”
Then he looked at me.
“I didn’t know she was taking money from you.”
I told him about the four thousand.
His expression changed.
“Leo.”
“What?”
“She gave Julian money again.”
My stomach dropped.
“When?”
“After she moved out.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about my transfer.
Four thousand dollars.
I knew before anyone proved it.
I had paid Julian.
The realization felt contaminating.
Ethan leaned back.
“I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t do it.”
“No.”
“But I should have spoken sooner.”
“Maybe.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
We spent two hours talking.
By the time I left, I no longer felt uncertain.
I felt angry.
But this time the anger had structure.
Facts.
Dates.
Documents.
The next day, I called Maya.
She answered cautiously.
“Leo?”
“Yeah.”
A pause.
“If you’re calling about my text, I probably owe you an apology.”
“Not yet.”
“What does that mean?”
“I need you to do something first.”
I explained everything.
She barely interrupted.
When I finished, silence.
Then:
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”