What struck Isadora, watching him kneel there among the wreckage of his own life, was how little she wanted from him.

She had imagined this moment, in weaker years — imagined some grand confrontation in which she finally made him understand exactly what he had done, watched the comprehension break over his face, and felt, at last, avenged.

But the reality of it was oddly empty of triumph.

His understanding, if it ever even came, would change nothing.

It would not give her back the eight years.

It would not make the love she had spent on him retroactively worthwhile.