Then his lawyer asked whether he wanted additional time to review the terms.
Her husband laughed.
"I don't need another week to read what everybody's already explained."
He turned toward Naya.
"Can we just finish this?"
She remained composed.
Nobody forced him to sign.
Nobody hid the subject of the agreement.
And the papers were not presented as an unrelated insurance form.
The purpose was explained, and he had his own legal adviser.
He simply believed the financial benefit he hoped to obtain mattered more than examining every implication.
Then he signed.
He initialed the relevant pages.
His lawyer confirmed the execution formalities.
And the completed documents were distributed to the parties.
Naya watched the pen move across the final page.
For a moment, she felt a strange sadness.
Not triumph.
Not excitement.
Only the realization that her husband had just formally acknowledged facts he'd been denying to another woman.
The document package also addressed the disputed household transactions.
Her husband authorized the production and reconciliation of specified account records as part of the financial disclosure process.
He seemed unconcerned.
He believed the expenses could be explained as legitimate business costs.
He also underestimated how much information Naya and her advisers had already collected.
When the accountant asked about certain transfers, the husband gave short answers.
"Client expenses."
"Temporary advances."
"Marketing costs."
Naya listened without interrupting.
Some explanations might have been legitimate.
Others appeared inconsistent with the merchant names and dates.
The accountant didn't challenge every answer immediately.
He documented them for comparison with supporting evidence.
At the end of the meeting, her husband leaned toward Naya.
"Happy now?"
She looked at him.
For a moment, she considered telling him everything she knew.
The hotel.
The apartment.
The baby.
The social-media photograph.
But she wasn't ready.
Not because she wanted revenge.
Because her attorney had advised her to establish the relevant facts before entering a confrontation that could become volatile.
So she answered quietly.
"I hope we can be honest about the money from now on."
Her husband smiled without warmth.
"Sure."
Then he stood and left.
That evening, Naya discovered a message from the mistress on a public account.
It wasn't addressed to her directly.
The woman had posted a photograph of a silver suitcase beside a collection of infant supplies.
The caption was short.
Tomorrow we finally go home.
Naya stared at the image.
For a moment, she felt a cold, almost unreal calm.
Her husband was still pretending they were discussing business financing.
He hadn't asked for a divorce.