My husband called to tell me he was locked in a grueling legal deposition. His tone sounded drained, composed, even affectionate—the exact tone I had relied on for ten years. But at that precise second, I was standing on the observation bridge above Concourse E, watching him kiss another woman at the first-class check-in desk.

Two Years Later.

I stood on the balcony of my new estate in the South of France, holding a glass of vintage champagne. The Mediterranean Sea glittered like crushed diamonds under the afternoon sun.

Arthur sat at the patio table behind me, reviewing the quarterly earnings for Vanguard.

"Profits are up thirty percent, Victoria," Arthur said, closing the folder. "And I thought you might like to know... I had one of my associates run a background check on the Sterlings, just to tie up loose ends."

"Oh?" I said, taking a sip.

"David is working as a junior paralegal at a strip-mall law firm in Newark," Arthur said with a faint smile. "His wages are being heavily garnished by the IRS. Eleanor is living in a subsidized studio apartment, and Chloe is working retail."

I looked out at the ocean.

For ten years, I had believed that love meant making yourself small so someone else could be big. I thought loyalty meant being the foundation that everyone else walked on.

But a foundation is only as good as the building it supports. And the Sterlings were nothing but a house of cards.

"Send them a Christmas card, Arthur," I said, a genuine smile breaking across my face.

"From you?"