Standing on that balcony with the champagne cold in my hand, watching them stand in the rain among the ruins of the feast they had ordered — it tasted sweeter than anything I had ever cooked in my life.

I have gone back and forth about whether to admit that so plainly, because there is a version of this story in which I am purely noble — the wronged woman who takes no pleasure in her enemies’ downfall, who feels only sober relief, who is above the base satisfaction of revenge.

That woman would be more admirable, perhaps.

But she would not be me, and I have decided I am done, forever, performing a virtue I do not feel for the comfort of people watching.

I did feel it.

Watching Julian and Fiona stand in the rain, humiliated, surrounded by the frozen dinners they had demanded, I felt a satisfaction so pure and so complete that I have never once, in all the months since, apologized to myself for it.