She was a commercial development consultant with sharp instincts and an appetite for the kind of life I could afford.

She admired my portfolio, understood my schedule, and never asked me to leave a meeting for dinner.

I mistook the absence of disagreement for compatibility.

The affair did not begin as an accident.

There were choices, one after another: a drink I could have declined, a hotel room I could have left, a message I could have shown my wife and instead deleted.

When I told Hannah I wanted a divorce, I had already decided that Vivienne would move into my penthouse.

Hannah listened from the other side of our dining table with her hands folded over a leather purse.

I remember noticing a white envelope protruding from the purse’s zipper.

Twice she touched it as if she meant to take something out.

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said.

I looked at my watch.

Vivienne was waiting downstairs in the car.

“Hannah, please don’t make this harder.”

She pulled her hand away from the envelope.