My husband booked himself a first-class seat and shoved me into the last row with our triplets — before the plane even leveled off, he was back at my side, ash-gray and shaking, whispering, "How could you do this to me?"

I stared at the message for a long time.

Grant's mother was named Sylvia. I had her number saved. This wasn't it.

I typed back: Who is this?

Three dots. Then: My name is Eleanor. I'm Grant's aunt. Sylvia gave me your number. Please call when you can. It's important.

I'd met Eleanor once, at a family gathering two years back. Quiet, watchful — the kind of woman who sat in a corner and noticed everything in the room. Grant had barely spoken to her all afternoon.

I typed: On a flight. Land in 90 minutes.

She answered right away: I'll be waiting.

I put the phone face-down on the tray table and looked at the babies. All three asleep now — a small miracle. Ivy's head had tipped sideways. Theo's fist was curled under his chin. June was making the soft sound she always made when she went deep under, a tiny hum, almost a purr.

I had named them. Grant had approved the names the way he approved most things I did — with mild disinterest, like it was a minor bit of paperwork.

I thought about the separation agreement Bethany had described. A document with my signature. I had never signed a thing. Which meant someone had forged it, or she'd been handed something built from scratch.

Either way, that wasn't impulsive. That was planned.

We landed. I stayed in my seat until most of the cabin had filed past. Bethany passed my row without stopping, but she looked at me. I gave her a small nod. She nodded back.

Grant came last. He'd waited, I realized, until business class had cleared out. He came down the aisle with his carry-on on one shoulder, jaw set, eyes forward.

He stopped at my row.

"We need to talk," he said. "Before we get to the hotel."

"We do," I agreed.

"The card isn't working. I need you to—"

"I know it isn't working."

Something moved behind his eyes. Not guilt. Math.

"Nora. We have three children. Whatever you think is happening—"

"I found the reservation, Grant. I know about Bethany. I know about the document you showed her." I kept my voice low and even. "And your aunt Eleanor just messaged me. She says there's something about the account I don't know."

His carry-on slipped off his shoulder. He caught it. His knuckles went white.

"Eleanor has nothing to do with this."

"Then it won't take long to hear her out."

He leaned down, close, his voice dropping to something that wasn't quite a whisper.

"Don't call her, Nora. I'm serious. She's been trying to get her hands into our money for years. She'll make problems where there aren't any."

"Our money," I said. "Or mine?"

He straightened. For just a second the calculation dropped and something rawer showed underneath. Then it was gone.

"I'll meet you at baggage claim," he said, and walked away.

I gathered the babies, the bags, the bottles, the blankets. A woman across the aisle — a grandmother type with silver hair and kind eyes, she'd been there the whole flight — stood and held out her hands.

"Let me take one," she said.

I handed her Theo without hesitating. She held him like she'd done it ten thousand times.

"Rough flight?" she said.

"Rough few days," I said.