She didn't sleep.
She lay in the dark with the message on her phone and the rain slowing outside and the particular quality of silence that comes at three in the morning when a thought you can't put down has decided it owns the night.
The whole thing was staged by his board.
She thought about the night she had walked in. The tableau of it — Damian's hands in Sophia's hair, the whispered words, the specific choreography of a man caught. She had replayed it hundreds of times. But now she replayed it differently, the way you look at an image in a new light and suddenly see the brushstrokes that the finished surface had been hiding.
The divorce papers had been in her bag. She had prepared them weeks earlier after finding the texts. Whoever had planned the scene — if it had been planned — c
