As we sat, Jessica picked up the wine list. She flipped it open and sighed loudly.

“Pedestrian,” she muttered, tossing it onto the table. “Mark, order the ’82 Petrus. If they have it. I doubt they do.”

Mark scrambled to signal the sommelier. “Of course, Jessica. Whatever you want.”

I watched them. I saw Jessica lean in, her hand resting on Mark’s knee under the table. I saw Mark slip something under her napkin. It was a key card. Our room key card. The one for the Oceanfront Suite I had paid for.

The ticking clock in my head grew louder.

The dinner was a masterclass in humiliation.