It was shaky footage—Lily’s voice was singing off-screen, clearly unaware she was recording.
The camera first pointed at the living-room rug… then at the sofa… then, suddenly, at the hallway.
And that’s when everyone in the courtroom saw it.
Daniel.
Standing in my sister’s house.
With another woman.
Laughing. Holding her waist. Kissing her.
The same month he’d accused me of “emotional abandonment” and “neglect of marital duties.”
My heart pounded painfully as the woman—young, polished, confident—whispered, “When will you tell her?”
Daniel chuckled on the video. “Soon. I just need the divorce to go through cleanly so I don’t lose anything.”
The judge’s eyebrows shot up.
Daniel lunged toward the monitor. “Turn that off! That’s private—”
“It was recorded in my home,” my sister snapped, her face red with fury. “And you didn’t know Lily was behind the stairs.”
The video continued.
Daniel’s voice filled the room again, dripping with disdain:
“She’s pathetic. She’ll sign anything. She still thinks I’m just stressed from work. This divorce will be easy.”
My stomach twisted.
