James could not access.

I did not spend a rupee.

I did not even breathe properly until the confirmation came through.

After that I called my lawyer, Meera Sethi, whose office in Defence Colony had handled my parents’ estate years earlier and later helped with several property transactions.

When she answered, I said, “I need you to assume my husband has been planning financial deception and marital fraud.

I have documentary evidence.

I want to protect the assets first and file for divorce immediately.”

There was a pause, and then Meera’s voice sharpened into the tone of a woman stepping into familiar terrain.

“Do not warn him.

Send me everything.

Keep the transferred funds untouched.

Back up the lease documents.

Forward me the account history, your inheritance papers, and any communication about Toronto.”

I spent the next two hours building a dossier.

By midnight, Meera had a copy of the lease, a screenshot of the crib request, bank statements showing the inheritance deposits, my parents’ probate documents, and every email James had sent about the transfer to Canada.

She called me once more before bed and said, “You moved quickly.

That matters.

Now let’s make sure the facts remain louder than his excuses.”

The next morning he called.

His voice came in bright and careful, too cheerful, as though he were walking through a script he had rehearsed.

“Landed.

Long trip.

Immigration took forever.”

I stood in the breakfast room looking at the garden and said, “How’s Toronto?”

“Cold,” he replied automatically.

Delhi was humid with the first edge of monsoon that morning.

I pictured him not under a Canadian sky but in the back of a car on the expressway toward Gurugram, thinking himself clever.

I said, very calmly, “How is Erica?”

The silence that followed was so complete I could hear a bird strike the outer hedge.

Then he laughed.

It was the wrong laugh, too thin and too late.

“What are you talking about?”

“The lease is in your name and hers.

The crib request was unnecessary detail, James.

You should have kept the nursery out of the paperwork.”

He did not deny it immediately.

That was the first honest thing he did all week.

When he finally spoke, his voice had changed.

“You went through my laptop?”

“No,” I said.

“I found the truth while looking for legal documents.

There is a difference.”

He tried every door after that.

First outrage.

Then minimization.

Then insult.

Erica was “not what I thought.” The apartment was “temporary.” The baby situation was “complicated.” Toronto had “fallen through at the last minute.” He claimed he had planned to explain everything once the timing was better.

When I informed him that the money from our joint account had been secured, he stopped pretending to be misunderstood and became furious.

“You moved all of it?” he shouted.

“That’s marital money.”

“A large portion is traceable to my inheritance,” I said.

“And it is safe.

Safer than it would have been with a man who staged an international relocation to finance another household.”

He threatened court within the same breath that he demanded forgiveness.

That combination told me more than any confession could have.

Meera filed the divorce petition that afternoon.

She also sent notices to the bank, our property managers, and our