That afternoon, I took the watch back.
The salesperson recognized me.
"Mr. Cole."
He saw the box.
"Something wrong?"
"No."
"It's perfect."
"Then...?"
"Change of circumstances."
He gave me the careful expression people reserve for strangers they suspect are undergoing divorce, death, or bankruptcy.
"Has it been worn?"
"No."
"Your wife didn't like it?"
"She never saw it."
He nodded.
That was enough.
Twenty minutes later, the purchase was reversed.
The money went back to the credit card.
The box disappeared beneath the counter.
I walked out feeling lighter and worse.
My next appointment was with a family-law attorney.
His name was Daniel Reeves.
Mark had used his firm years earlier when Mark's sister divorced, and apparently Daniel was known for preventing angry people from doing expensive things while angry.
His office had gray furniture and no photographs except one landscape print.
I sat across from him.
"I'm considering separating."
Daniel nodded.
"All right."
No dramatic expression.
No sympathy face.
Lawyers are useful because you can tell them your marriage collapsed at four o'clock and they respond as if you asked where to park.
He asked:
"Children?"
"No."
"Length of marriage?"
"Eight years."
"House?"
"Jointly titled."
"Mortgage?"
"Both names."
"Income?"
We went through everything.
My salary.
Rachel's.
Retirement accounts.
Savings.
Credit cards.
Vehicles.
The house.
Investments.
Furniture.
Insurance.
He asked whether I believed Rachel was hiding money.
"No."
"Affair?"
"Not that I know."
"Domestic violence?"
"No."
"Substance problems?"
"No."
Then:
"What happened?"
I told him the short version.
Not the subscription joke at first.
Just that I overheard Rachel tell a friend she did not know whether she loved me and stayed because the marriage was convenient.
Daniel wrote nothing while I spoke.
When I finished, he said:
"Are you filing today?"
"No."
"Good."
I blinked.
"Why good?"
"Because you're furious."
"People make poor financial decisions when they confuse emotional justice with legal strategy."
He leaned forward.
"Do not empty the joint account."
"I wasn't planning to."
"Good."
"Do not cancel her health insurance if she's on your plan."
"I wasn't."
"Do not sell shared property."
"Do not lock her out of the house."
"Do not run up debt."
"Do not move money around to 'protect it.'"
"Document balances."
"Copy records."
"Know your debts."
"Know your monthly obligations."
"If you leave temporarily, make sure you understand what you'll still be paying."
I asked about opening a new account for my future salary.
He explained how to do it cleanly while continuing agreed household obligations during separation.
I asked about the house.
He explained options.
Sale.
Buyout.
Temporary shared ownership.
No moral speeches.
No revenge.
Just mechanics.
That helped.