My husband smiled as he announced he was leaving me for our housekeeper, as if twenty-five years of marriage meant nothing. “You can have the lake house,” he said, as she slipped my necklace over her finger and whispered, “Now he belongs to me.” I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream.

Malcolm Pierce.

He slid a thick file toward me. “Are you safe?”

Inside were trust documents, property agreements, loan guarantees, and a private investigation report.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“It’s going to be destructive,” he warned.

I looked out over the city. “No. Destruction is messy. I prefer precision.”

Three days later, Victor threw a party.

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