When the ER physician pulled back the curtain, Dorian’s face drained of color.

He was banged up from the crash but not badly hurt; Sabeen sat pale in a chair beside the bed, a bandage on her arm.

The staff kept a careful, professional silence.

The folder was the thing Dorian had never accounted for, because he had spent five years believing he had put the dangerous version of his wife permanently to sleep.

He thought he had married a woman who read decorating magazines and planned charity galas — the pleasant, ornamental Linnea he had so carefully cultivated.

He had forgotten, or perhaps never truly believed, that underneath the wife he’d designed was a CFO who had once caught a vendor skimming two percent across four hundred invoices by noticing that the rounding was wrong.