I had no intention of making a scene.

I carried a leather folder — the surveillance photographs, the investigator’s report, copies of our joint financial statements, and a composure that surprised even me.

I had chosen my clothes that morning the way you choose armor.

Nothing dramatic — a good dark blazer, the kind of thing I’d wear to present a design to a difficult client.

I wanted to walk down that aisle looking like exactly what I was: not a wronged wife come to weep and beg, but a composed woman arriving to conclude a piece of business.

I checked in at a separate counter.