It demanded that I waive every claim to marital assets, sign a statement admitting I had attacked Luca without provocation, surrender all confidentiality rights, and promise never to discuss what it called private Vance family matters — a phrase I understood, now, to mean thirty-two years of a woman’s face meeting a man’s hand.

At the bottom was a deadline.

Five o’clock.

I laughed once, out loud, and forwarded the whole thing to my own attorney.

Patricia watched me from her hospital bed, frightened.

“You should leave me out of this,” she whispered.

“Arthur will destroy you.

You don’t understand what he owns.”