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I’d been a divorce attorney for six years. That night, I was doing a live Q&A on Instagram when a girl joined the stream, her voice honey-sweet. “Hi, can I ask you something?” “I’ve fallen for a married man. His wife doesn’t know yet.” “I want him to divorce her and marry me. Any advice?” I smiled into the camera. “Find someone else.” She paused, then laughed along with me. “Meredith, don’t be so formal. You’ve handled so many divorce cases. You must know a few tricks.” She propped her chin on her hand, her tone breezy. “Like, how do you get the wife to give up her share of the marital assets and just walk away?” I stared at the exquisitely made-up face in the small video window. “Why do you ask?” She blinked. “No reason. Just curious.” “Oh, right. I haven’t introduced myself.” “My name is Laney. I’m your husband’s assistant.” “He’s staying at my place tonight, by the way. He won’t be home until morning, so you don’t have to wait up.” ... The comment section exploded. I watched the messages blur as they scrolled up the screen. Those few seconds stretched into an eternity. Then I smiled. “Laney, is it? Thank you for letting me know.” “But you’re wrong about one thing.” “Legally, as long as we haven’t finalized the paperwork at the County Clerk’s Office, he is still my husband.” “Where he sleeps tonight is irrelevant.” “I’ve handled a lot of cases. I’ve seen more than one person lose their marriage, their job, and their reputation over an affair.” “Good night.” I ended the livestream. My hand was still on the mouse, shaking violently. My phone rang. It was Darragh. I stared at the name flashing on the screen and was suddenly six years in the past, meeting him for the first time. I had just passed the bar and was interning at my mentor’s firm. Darragh was a partner on the adjacent team, eight years my senior. My mentor said he was going to go far. The first ti......

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When I saw my husband and his ex-fiancée on the passenger list for the last flight out before the hurricane, I didn’t cry. I just opened the laptop I hadn’t touched since he’d asked me to quit my job. I created a new folder. I named it: Ethan—Storm Incident. First piece of evidence: a screenshot of the text where he lied, claiming he was trapped at the company warehouse. Second piece of evidence: the flight information to Atlanta, seats 12A and 12B. He thought a hurricane could wash away every trace of his betrayal. He forgot what I used to do for a living. I was once the best disaster-risk data analyst in the city. The perfect escape he’d orchestrated looked, to me, like a disaster model riddled with catastrophic failures. And I was about to assess the full extent of his losses. … Outside, the wind hammered rain against the glass. I refreshed the flight tracker on my phone. Delta Flight 884 had landed safely in Atlanta. Arrived. Safe. ......