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Elizabeth came home with takeout and froze in the doorway. There was Tom, pants down, laptop glowing with some shaky, low-budget sex tape. Nothing shocking on the surface—until the girl on screen turned and said something that sounded a lot like “don’t get my sister on film again, you dick.” Recognition hit. These weren’t random clips. These were receipts. Proof of conquests past, edited like cheap wedding videos nobody asked for. Instead of screaming, Elizabeth smiled. A small, wicked thing. “Cute archive,” she said, tossing the food on the counter. “But where’s mine?” Tom blinked like he’d been slapped with a rolled-up newspaper. She didn’t wait. Already unbuttoning her blouse, walking backward toward their bedroom, she called over her shoulder, “Camera’s still on, right? Wouldn’t want to leave a gap in the collection.”