The conference room was cold, smelling of lemon polish and fear. Ethan sat on the opposite side of the long glass table. He looked thinner. His suit—a bespoke navy number I had bought him in London—hung slightly loose on his frame. He wouldn’t look at me.

His lawyer slid a stack of papers across the table. “My client seeks a settlement of five million dollars and the retention of the Tribeca residence.”

Elena didn’t even touch the papers. She simply placed an iPad on the table and pressed play.

The video was clear. It showed Ethan entering a boutique hotel in the Meatpacking District. He was not alone. The woman with him was young—twenty-two, perhaps. She was an intern at one of the firms I funded. I recognized her instantly.

The video cut to the lobby the next morning. A kiss goodbye. A hand on the small of her back—a gesture he used to use on me.