My husband let his mistress hold my eight-week-old daughter in my nursery while she wore the ivory silk dress I had bought for my own newborn portraits. Two minutes after the photographer sent me the gallery, I knew my marriage was over, but Landon still had no idea those files had reached me. And the photographs were not even the worst thing hiding inside that gallery.

“What kind of messages, Tessa?” I asked, keeping my voice level.

“I shouldn't even be telling you this,” Tessa whispered over the line, her breath hitching. “Landon created a secondary user profile under your account three days ago. He told me you were in a psychiatric crisis. He said you asked Harper to step in so the newborn milestone wouldn’t be lost if you… if you were institutionalized.”

A chill settled into my chest, sharp as broken glass. “Read me one. Word for word.”

“He wrote: *'Greer’s postpartum depression has deteriorated into erratic, hostile behavior. Per our family therapist’s guidance, we are creating photographic continuity for the infant with her designated surrogate guardian, Harper Quinn. Greer has consented verbally but cannot sign legal documents due to acute impairment.'*”

Tessa paused, clearly terrified. “Greer, he had me countersign an affidavit of custody readiness. He told me his attorney needed these prints expedited by tomorrow morning at nine.”

“Tomorrow at nine,” I repeated.

“I had no idea you were just at St. Catherine’s for an infection,” Tessa said, her voice cracking. “I swear to God, Greer, I thought I was helping a grieving father protect his baby.”

“Send me the full portal export, Tessa. Every timestamp, every IP address, and every message draft. If a single byte disappears, my attorney will name your studio as a co-conspirator in an unlawful custodial interference scheme.”

“Sending now,” she choked out.

The email pinged forty seconds later.

I downloaded the zip archive onto two separate flash drives. I sat on the edge of the bed in the guest room, watching June’s tiny chest rise and fall. My eighty-pound nursing chair sat across the hall in the nursery, surrounded by the residue of another woman’s perfume—a heavy, suffocating scent of jasmine and bergamot. Harper’s signature scent.

I walked into the nursery on silent feet. The room looked pristine on the surface, but the details told the real story. On the changing table, tossed carelessly behind the wipes container, lay an empty silver foil wrapper from Harper’s brand of mints.

Then I looked up at the crown molding.

Tucked into the smoke detector in the corner was a pinhole lens, reflecting a faint infrared pulse. It hadn't been there when I went to the hospital on Tuesday.

Landon hadn't just staged a photoshoot. He had wired my child’s room.

My phone vibrated in my palm. A text from Landon:

*Hey sweetheart. Just wrapping up client meetings downtown. Bringing home takeout from that Thai place you love. How's the incision feeling? Stay in bed, okay? Evelyn is coming over at six to help you with the night feedings. Don’t lift anything.*

He was setting the stage. Every text was an exhibit: the devoted, protective husband caring for his fragile, invalid wife.

I glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was 5:14 PM.

Forty-six minutes before Evelyn arrived.

I didn't pack a suitcase. A suitcase would be visible on the hallway cameras Landon had undoubtedly installed. Instead, I unzipped the diaper bag, sliding my passport, June’s birth certificate, my car title, and the two flash drives between the waterproof lining and the changing mat.

As I zipped it shut, the gravel crunched in the driveway. Headlights swept across the nursery ceiling.