My husband was a doctor at the very hospital where I spent an entire month fighting for my life—and during all that time, he never visited me.

I paid for that property with eighty-hour workweeks and weekend surgeries! You review spreadsheets for a living!”

I took out my tablet.

“Fine. Let’s talk about spreadsheets.”

First came the transplant protocol, with Section 4, Paragraph B highlighted.

Then the server records showing he had filed zero emergency-leave requests.

Finally, I showed him timestamped photographs from his public appearances during my last ten hospital days.

“No one held you hostage downstairs, Marcus,” I said, keeping my voice steady and cold. “You chose not to come up to the seventeenth floor