I boarded my husband's private jet and his secretary was in my seat, feeding him peeled orange. His mother told me to be considerate. I stepped off. Then the crew asked whether I wanted the flight cancelled.

He was right to expect it, based on the evidence. That is the part I cannot be angry about.

PART 4

I went down the stairs into the private terminal.

Eleven steps. I counted them on the way down, which is a thing I apparently do.

It was warm on the tarmac. Somebody held a door for me and said good morning.

My phone filled up on the way. Missed calls, messages, one from his assistant asking whether I needed a car.

And then one name that stopped me on the tarmac, with the engines still running behind me.

I had to stand still to read it, which is a thing I have not done since 2020.

Daxon. His chief financial officer.

Nine years in that company, two of them before I ever put money into it, which matters because it means he was there when the thing nearly died.

He is fifty-one and he has never once in six years said anything to me at a dinner that was not about the weather.