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.

It took David three days to get back to New York.

Without the credit cards, they couldn't pay for the luxury resort. Eleanor had to pawn her diamond tennis bracelet at a local Maui jewelry shop just to buy five one-way economy tickets back to JFK.

When David’s Uber pulled up to the Connecticut estate, he probably expected to find me crying on the sofa, ready to be manipulated.

Instead, he found a chain-link fence erected around the perimeter and two armed private security guards standing at the gate.

I was watching from the security cameras, streaming directly to my iPad in my hotel suite.

David jumped out of the car, his face unshaven, his navy blazer wrinkled and smelling like airplane sweat. "Hey! Open the gate! This is my house!"

The security guard, a massive ex-military man named Greg, held up a clipboard. "Name?"

"David Sterling! I own this property!"

Greg checked his list. "I'm sorry, sir. This property is owned by the V.L. Trust. We have strict orders that a Mr. David Sterling is to be denied entry. If you attempt to scale the fence, we will call the local police."

Eleanor stumbled out of the Uber, her hair a frizzy mess. "David, what is going on? Tell these apes to let us in! My medication is in there!"

"Your personal belongings were boxed and shipped to a storage unit in Queens," Greg stated calmly, handing David a business card. "Here is the key to the unit. The first month's rent has been paid. After that, it's on you."