First, Elite Catering Services — the most exclusive, most expensive agency in the city. I ordered a full five-course dinner for twenty-two covers, with a private chef, three servers, and a sommelier.

When the coordinator asked for payment, I put it on our joint household account — the one my name was on too, the one Marcus never bothered to check because he considered domestic spending beneath him.

“Have the staff arrive at four-thirty,” I said, my voice smooth as silk. “And please print the full itemized invoice and present it in a leather folder at the end of the evening.

My husband loves to review exactly what his money bought.”

Next I called an emergency residential cleaning service. By eleven, three workers were polishing the hardwood, dusting the crystal chandeliers, and laying the formal table with our best silver.

I sat on a barstool in the middle of the kitchen, directing the whole operation like a general moving troops, sipping iced water against the nausea from my fractured bone.