The officers pulled Zane to his feet. His suit was rumpled and his face wet with sweat and tears, but he kept looking at me.
“The vows we made in Paris were a lie,” I said, my voice steady, carrying only to him. “You didn't love me. You loved my trust fund. You didn’t lose a wife tonight, Zane. You lost your personal bank.”
“My lawyer will send the divorce papers and civil suit to your cell. Prison wages are low, but you’ll have plenty of time.”
I turned away while the officers led him off the stage. He called my name. I kept walking.
The grand oak doors closed behind me, cutting off the police lights, the reporters and Zane’s voice. I crossed the empty marble lobby without looking back.
Six months later, I sat in my new office twenty stories above the city. Afternoon sun reached acro
