Not his affair; his crimes.

Victoria gasped somewhere to my left and dropped her wine, the glass shattering on the carpet in the silence.

And Julian — Julian stood frozen with the champagne trembling in his hand, the color draining from his face, watching himself confess to a room full of the exact people whose good opinion was the whole of his world.

Harrison Vance’s face had gone thunderous.

A couple of the senior partners lunged toward the AV booth to cut it off, but Eleanor Thorne’s people had locked the system, and there was nothing to do but let it play, and let the whole assembled corporate world of the city watch my husband describe, in his own words, the theft he’d thought no one would ever see.