"This isn't about the Henriksen account," Nia said.
Darian looked up from the menu he hadn't been reading. "No."
"Or the Morrison review."
"No."
She put her own menu down and looked at him across the table from the small Italian restaurant three blocks from the office that she had suggested specifically because it was public and quiet simultaneously, the kind of place where conversations could be serious without becoming scenes.
"Then what is it about," she said.
He was quiet for a moment. The restaurant moved around them in its unhurried Tuesday evening way of low conversation, the particular warmth of a room that had been feeding people for a long time and had no interest in anyone's complications beyond making sure their food arrived correctly.
"The divorce," he said. "I want to
