When she married Dorian, she had been formidable — a woman who ran the finances of a nine-figure company, who sat at the head of audit meetings, whose signature moved money and whose read on a deal her grandfather had trusted above his own.

And then, by degrees, she had become decorative.

It had started with reasonable-sounding suggestions: that she was working too hard, that she deserved to enjoy their life, that he could handle the day-to-day so she could breathe.

Each step had been framed as care.

Step back from the quarterly reviews, love, you’ve earned a rest.

Let me take the investor dinners, you hate them anyway.