The therapist's office had soft lighting and a box of tissues on every surface, like sadness was expected to happen in multiples. Dr. Patel had kind eyes and a notepad she barely used. She let silences sit longer than most people could stand.

Keaton couldn't stand them at all.

"I think what happened," he said, twenty minutes in, "is that we grew in different directions. That's not anyone's fault. It's just what happens sometimes, when two people—"

"You were seen leaving a gallery opening with your executive assistant," Dr. Patel said, not unkindly. "On his arm, per the photo caption." She glanced at her folder. "Is that growing in different directions, Mr. Harrison, or is that an affair?"

His jaw worked. "It's complicated."

"Try uncomplicating it for me."

He launched into it anyway — the pressure of the company, the loneliness of being at the top, how success changes a man's needs. I watched him build his case like he was pitching investors, like if he just found the right words, the right sequence, the room would agree the ending was inevitable. I said nothing. I didn't need to. Every sentence he added just dug the hole a little deeper.

Dr. Patel let him finish, then set her pen down.

"I want to ask you something direct," she said. "Do you feel grateful to your wife? For anything, over the course of your marriage?"

The silence that followed was the longest one yet.

"I mean—" he started. Stopped. Started again. "Of course I'm grateful. She's done a lot for me. For us."

"Can you name something? Specifically."

He looked at me like I might rescue him. I looked back and didn't move a muscle.

"The— the early years," he said. "When the company was struggling. She was there."

"Was she there," Dr. Patel said, "or did she save it?"

He didn't answer that. He picked at his cuff instead, and for the first time since we'd walked in, he wasn't performing anymore. He just looked like a man who'd never once, in six years, said the word *thank you* and meant it.

I wrote it down later, at home. Not in anger. Just as a fact, the way I wrote everything now. *Couldn't answer. Silence: eleven seconds.*

---

Ariya started texting me three days after that session.

*I know this isn't my place. But I just want you to know I never meant for any of this to hurt you.*

I read it once. Screenshotted it. Sent it to Lawrence, who'd created a folder just for her — WEBB — ADMISSIONS, sitting quiet and growing on his server like a bruise under skin.

The next one came two days later. *He's happier than I've seen him in years. Isn't that what you'd want for him, even now? For him to be happy?*

I didn't answer that one either. I screenshotted it. Timestamped it. Filed it.

The third one was the one that made me almost laugh out loud, alone in my kitchen. *I'm not the villain here. I just love him. Can't you understand that, woman to woman?*

Woman to woman. As if we were two friends splitting a man like a bill at dinner. I typed out four different replies and deleted every one. Silence, I'd learned, was its own kind of weapon. Every message she sent me unprompted, unsolicited, was another brick in a wall I hadn't even had to build myself. She was building it for me.

---

Lawrence called me in on a Thursday. His office smelled like burnt coffee and printer toner, and the report on his desk was thick enough to double as a doorstop.

"The forensic team finished the audit," he said, sliding it across. "Sit down first."

I sat. I read.

A $1.2 million down payment on a two-bedroom in Hudson Yards, closed under Ariya Webb's name six weeks after her hire date. A leased Porsche Cayenne, white, registered to the same address. Charges at Bergdorf's and Net-a-Porter that ran into six figures over four months. And underneath all of it, threading through Keaton's company books like a vein — wire transfers routed through something called Kestrel Consulting LLC, a shell with no employees, no office, and one bank account that funneled straight back to her.

"Marital assets," Lawrence said quietly. "Every dollar of it. Company revenue that should've been reinvested, or at minimum, disclosed as a marital asset given your co-signed loans in the early years."

I turned the last page. Read the total twice, just to be sure the number wasn't a typo.

Lawrence watched me the way he always did when he was waiting for the storm — the raised voice, the shaking hands, something. I gave him none of it.

I set the report down flat on his desk, squared the edges with two fingers, and looked up.

"File everything," I said.

He almost smiled. Almost. "You don't want to sit with it a minute?"

"I've sat with it long enough." I stood, buttoned my coat. "Freeze every account tied to his name. Personal, business, doesn't matter. I want it done before his company's Monday board call."

"That'll gut his cash flow."

"I'm counting on it."