For once, I had not allowed him to turn the conversation into a trial where only one of us could be guilty.
"I love you," he said.
I believed he believed that in the moment.
That made it worse.
"Then your definition of love needs work."
He came closer.
I raised one hand.
"Don't."
He stopped.
"Are you filing for divorce?"
"I don't know yet."
"Did you hire a lawyer?"
I said nothing.
His face changed.
"You did."
"I spoke to one."
"So while I'm trying to save our marriage, you're building a case against me."
I nearly laughed again.
"You booked Cancun before I knew there was a case."
He looked toward the floor.
"What do you want me to do?"
It was the first useful question he had asked.
"Stop lying."
"I am."
"Not only about Ashley. About money. About the company. About every trip you called business that wasn't. I need full financial disclosure."
"I need a health screening before I consider physical contact with you again. I need you not to come to my sister's house, my hotel, or my workplace unless I invite you. And I need time."
He looked offended by the last requirement more than all the others.
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
"That's not fair to me."
I stared at him.
He realized what he had said.
His shoulders dropped.
"Right," he muttered. "I hear it."
For the first time since the airplane door, I saw a flicker of actual shame instead of panic about consequences.
It was not enough.
But it was real.
I took my suitcase and left.
Ashley sent me the messages that night.
There were hundreds.
I did not read all of them at once.