My husband defended his pregnant mistress in court, so I hired his worst rival.

The photo popped up on my screen twenty minutes after the noon recess began. Reyes had deferred Gabriel’s emergency phone motion until Friday, calling it premature.

It was an Instagram story from an account titled *@VanessaDiazOfficial*.

She was reclining across the center of my imported linen duvet, wearing my blush silk pajama set. The caption was short: *Upgraded views, upgraded life. Out with the stale, in with the gold.*

"Pull over," I told Gabriel.

He didn't turn his head from the road. "Court reconvenes at two, Hannah. We need to review Aaron’s encrypted server logs."

"Turn the car around, Gabriel. We’re going to the house."

He glanced at my phone screen resting on the leather center console. His mouth hardened into a straight line. "She's taunting you. She wants a reaction."

"She can have one," I said, my voice dead level. "Aaron forgot one critical detail when he drafted his fake narrative. My server rack is still in the basement study."

Gabriel tapped his fingers once against the steering wheel. "The forensic drives?"

"Every raw video file from my six years as a state forensic analyst," I told him. "Including the uncompressed master feed from the charity gala cameras. I built that system. The city hired me to design the municipal security framework before I ever took Aaron’s last name."

Gabriel swung the sedan through a sharp U-turn across the avenue. "Let's go get your property."

Ten minutes later, the sedan pulled up the curved cobblestone driveway of the four-bedroom modern colonial in Oakridge. The front door was already unlocked.

We walked through the foyer. The house smelled wrong—heavy gardenia perfume drowning out the cedarwood I always used.

Footsteps padded across the hardwood landing above.

Vanessa stood at the top of the grand staircase, one hand resting on the banister. She had my silk robe tied loosely around her waist, a crystal glass of Aaron’s vintage scotch resting in her palm.

"Look who decided to visit," Vanessa said, tilting her head with a lazy smirk. "I told Aaron you’d come creeping back the second he pulled your funding."

I didn't answer. I kept my eyes fixed on the basement door near the end of the hall.

"Don't ignore me, Hannah," she called down, descending three steps. "You don't live here anymore. Aaron changed the locks on your closet. He threw your clothes into black garbage bags out back."

"Where are my storage drives, Vanessa?" I asked.

"Probably in the incinerator," she laughed, taking another slow step down. "Or maybe Aaron gave them to the tech team to erase. You’re done. You pushed me down the stairs at the gala because you knew Aaron didn't want you touching him anymore. And now you’re trespassing."

Gabriel stepped into the archway, his hands resting in the pockets of his slacks. "Actually, Ms. Diaz, Hannah's name remains on the title. You, however, are a guest without legal tenancy."

Vanessa’s eyes flicked to Gabriel, a flash of irritation breaking her smug grin. "Shut up, Shaw. This is between me and the bitter ex-wife."

She walked down four more steps, stopping just two risers above me. She thrust her chest forward, leaning into my personal space.

"Come on, Hannah," Vanessa whispered, her voice venomous. "Shove me again. Put your hands on me. Aaron has two security guards waiting outside by the hedge. Hit me, and you leave this house in handcuffs."

"You want me to touch you?" I asked.

"I dare you," she sneered, raising her chin. "Give the judge a reason to revoke your bail."

I pulled my phone from my pocket.

"What are you doing? Calling Aaron?" Vanessa scoffed, taking a sip of the scotch. "He blocked your number two hours ago."

"I don't need Aaron," I said.

My thumb pressed against the custom icon on my screen—the proprietary hub client I built three years ago when we renovated the estate.

"Did Aaron tell you how this house runs?" I asked her quietly.

Vanessa blinked, her sneer slipping a fraction. "What?"

"He told you he bought it, didn't he?" I swiped into the root administrative terminal. "He told you he owns the grid, the smart locks, the perimeter arrays. He always took credit for my engineering."

"What are you talking about?"

"The house is registered as a standalone commercial node under my consulting LLC," I said.

I tapped the red command line on the glass: *SYS_OVERRIDE_ALL_TERMINATE.*

A sharp electronic beep echoed from the ceiling.

Instantly, the recessed chandeliers died.

The low hum of the air conditioning cut off with a grinding wheeze. The massive automated storm shutters along the floor-to-ceiling windows crashed down with a deafening rattle, locking into the sills and plunging the entire entryway into total, impenetrable blackness.

Vanessa screamed, the sound sharp and shrill as glass shattered on the parquet floor. "What did you do?!"

"I revoked host access," I said into the dark.

I switched on my phone’s utility flashlight, aiming the beam at the basement door. The heavy electronic deadbolt clicked open under my administrative key.

"Stay right there," I told Gabriel.

"Take your time," Gabriel replied from the darkness behind me, his tone dry as bone.

I descended into the basement study. The secondary power unit on my personal server rack was still blinking green. I didn't bother packing the frames. I pulled the master release lever, slid out the three primary terabyte solid-state cartridges, and shoved them into my satchel.

Forty seconds later, I walked back up into the foyer.

Vanessa was scrambling near the front door, slamming her palms against the heavy reinforced oak. The digital keypad on the wall flashed an angry crimson error code.

"The doors won't open!" she shrieked, her voice cracking with terror. "Open the doors! I can't breathe in here!"

The temperature in the sealed house was already climbing, the stuffy summer heat trapped behind three inches of insulated steel shutters.

"The manual latch is on the service panel behind the kitchen pantry," I told her, stepping toward the exit. "Assuming you know how to read a breaker schematic."

"Hannah! You can't leave me in here! Aaron will destroy you for this!"

"Aaron doesn't have root access," I said, tapping the phone once more to queue a full firmware wipe after our exit. "Nobody does. The house is bricked. Have fun waiting for the fire department to cut you out."

Gabriel pushed the heavy front door open when my exit override released the latch, letting the harsh midday sun flood into the entryway.

He stood in the bright opening, glancing back at Vanessa, who was cowering against the dark wallpaper in my ruined silk pajamas, sweating and shaking with rage.

"Enjoy the house, Vanessa," Gabriel said, a cold smirk touching the edge of his mouth. "It gets cold at night."

We stepped out onto the porch. The heavy front door slammed shut behind us, the deadbolts snapping into permanent lockdown with a dull thud.

The driveway was quiet. The two security guards Vanessa had mentioned were nowhere in sight. From inside, the muffled sound of Vanessa banging on the oak barely reached the gravel.

We walked down the steps to Gabriel's car.

I sat in the passenger seat, my satchel on my knees. I popped the first solid-state drive into the reader connected to my tablet, typing rapid commands into the terminal emulator. Lines of blue metadata raced across the screen, parsing through timestamps, video frame rates, and encrypted packet headers.

"You didn't just design city security grids," Gabriel said.

He hadn't started the engine yet. He sat behind the wheel, his gray eyes fixed on my hands as my fingers flew across the keyboard, stripping encryption layers off the gala files with effortless precision.

"I spent six years auditing digital evidence for federal fraud trials," I replied without glancing up. "Aaron used to call it a cute hobby."

"Aaron is a fool," Gabriel murmured.

There was no pity in his voice. For the first time since I walked into his corner office, his expression was stripped of arrogance. What remained in his eyes was raw, calculated hunger—the look of an apex predator realizing the weapon he just picked up was far deadlier than he had imagined.

"Can you pull the raw terrace footage?" he asked, leaning in toward the tablet.

"Already did," I said, pointing the screen toward him.

The video player opened.

It wasn't a blurry, distant security feed. It was a crisp, 4K wide-angle recording taken from the terrace's structural monitoring camera.

On the screen, Vanessa Diaz stood at the top of the stone stairs at eight-thirteen and fifty seconds, perfectly alone.

Aaron stepped into the frame behind her. Then the image tore into digital static for seven seconds. When the picture returned, Vanessa was crumpled at the bottom of the steps and Aaron was running toward her.

Gabriel stared at the moving image, his jaw tightening as a sharp, dangerous breath left his nose.

"Hannah," Gabriel whispered, looking up from the screen to meet my eyes. "Somebody erased the only seven seconds that matter."