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“They’re claiming what?” I set down my coffee before I threw it at the wall. The construction crew was already at work upstairs, and the last thing I needed was to explain why there were coffee stains on the freshly primed kitchen walls.

“Irreparable harm to the marriage,” Rachel repeated, her voice carrying that particular brand of lawyer calm that meant things were about to get expensive. “Public humiliation. Defamation of character. Intentional infliction of emotional distress.”

“Emotional distress? I caught him fucking my sister!”

“Yes, but you also played a recording of it at your wedding reception. In front of, according to their filing, ‘two hundred of Charlotte’s most prominent citizens.’“

“Two hundred and fifty, actually. The Blackwells brought uninvited plus-ones.”

“Sam.”

“What? If I’m being sued, we should be accurate.”

Rachel sighed. I could picture her rubbing her temples in her pristine downtown office. “They’re claiming the recording was illegal. North Carolina is a one-party consent state, but they’re arguing you weren’t party to the conversation.”

“I was standing right there!”

“But they didn’t know. It’s a gray area.”

“It’s not gray. It’s black and white. They were having sex in a room at my wedding venue. During my wedding. I think that makes me a pretty interested party.”

“I agree. A judge might not.”

I paced my disaster of a living room, dodging exposed floorboards and the sawhorses Tyson’s crew had left yesterday. Through the ceiling, I could hear them working on the upstairs bathroom. Normal sounds of normal life while my world tilted off its axis. Again.

“So what do we do?”

“We go on offense. What else do you have?”

“Texts from Sophie admitting to the timeline. Two years of messages between them that I pulled from Garrett’s laptop. Credit card statements showing hotel charges. Also the note he left on my windshield here. Proof he hired a PI to find me. The flowers he sent, with its card. About thirty voicemails I haven’t listened to but saved. Oh, and Sophie’s texts from this morning threatening to sue if I post the recording online.”

“She texted you?”

Unfortunately.

“Yes. First contact since the wedding. No ‘I’m sorry for fucking your husband.’ Just ‘You can’t use evidence of me and Garrett because I didn’t consent to being recorded while we were doing it.’“

“Forward me everything. We’re filing a countersuit. Harassment, stalking, and I want an emergency restraining order. He crossed state lines to leave that note, which makes it federal. I already told you that, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Music to my ears.”

“And Sam? No more contact. Not with him, not with Sophie. Everything goes through me now.”

“What if I already drafted a response to Garrett laying out exactly what evidence I have and what I’ll do with it if he doesn’t sign the divorce papers?”

“Did you send it?”

“Not yet.”

“Send it to me first. I’ll make sure it’s legally bulletproof before you pull that trigger.”

We hung up, and I stood there holding my phone, fury burning through me so hot I could taste it. They were trying to make me the villain. After everything they’d done, they were actually trying to paint me as the bad guy in this story.

The worst part? It might work. Garrett came from old money. His family had lawyers who had lawyers. They could afford to drag this out until I was broke and broken.

But they’d forgotten one thing. I’d already lost everything that mattered. What else could they take?

“You planning to burn a hole in that wall with your eyes, or should we just add it to the demo list?”