The pretext, if you can call it that, was a glass of red wine I had spilled across the silver designer dress of a woman named Serena.

Preston had punished me, publicly, for staining her gown.

Serena was the woman he had been sleeping with for eight months.

I had discovered their affair three weeks earlier, and had said nothing, and had begun to prepare.

Preston did not know that.

Neither did Serena.

They both believed, that night, that they were dealing with an oblivious, humiliated wife.

“Apologize,” Preston had ordered, and I had looked at him, and I had said, quietly, “I’m sorry.” Serena had smiled and sipped her champagne.