By eleven, an international partner terminated the multi-year logistics contract the company depended on to survive. By noon, the board voted unanimously to remove Russell as chief executive.

“You destroyed this company to protect your mistress!” his uncle shouted in the boardroom, hurling a stack of bank notices at him. “You made our name a joke.”

Russell was escorted out of his own building, shirt rumpled, hair wild, his coat stained by eggs shareholders threw at the entrance. For the first time, no one stepped aside for him.

When he got home, he found Gwendolyn in the foyer with two designer suitcases packed with cash, stolen jewelry, and watches taken from my old safe. “Russell, sweetheart,” she stammered, faking fear.

“There are reporters everywhere — we should leave town together until this blows over.”

He didn’t let her finish. He grabbed her collar and shoved her against the marble wall; a suitcase dropped and spilled banded bills across the floor. “You cut that dress yourself,” he said hollowly.