Corvin and Imelda stood on the sidewalk outside their own wrought-iron gate, surrounded by cardboard boxes and mismatched luggage.

Behind them, corporate security was locking the house, and a red repossession sign had been driven into the front lawn.

Imelda sat on a suitcase, weeping into a designer scarf, every aristocratic pretense stripped away.

Corvin stood beside her in a rumpled shirt, staring at the pavement, holding a yellow notice from his bankruptcy lawyers.

For a moment — only a moment — I felt the ghost of something that wasn’t triumph.

I had, after all, once believed him.