The café sat on a side street in Astoria, wedged between a laundromat and a Greek bakery. The kind of place with mismatched chairs and a chalkboard menu that hadn't been updated since spring. No one from Brandon's world would ever set foot in it. That was the point.
I got there twenty minutes early. Sat in the back booth with my cast resting on the table and ordered black coffee I didn't drink. My good hand held a manila envelope flat against the vinyl seat. Inside was a cashier's check with enough zeros to buy a brownstone in Brooklyn.
Scarlett walked in at 2:07.
She was dressed for war. Chanel jacket, sunglasses she didn't take off until she reached the booth, red bottoms that clicked against the tile like a warning. Her eyes swept the room the way a cat sweeps a yard—looking for exits, for witnesses, for the trap she was sure she was walking into.
She sat across from me. Peeled off her sunglasses. Set them on the table between us like a weapon.
"If you brought a lawyer," she said, "I'm leaving."
"No lawyer."
"If you brought a wire—"
"I didn't."
She studied me. Her eyes flicked down to my cast and back up. Something behind her expression twitched—not guilt, nothing that generous. Just recalculation.
The waitress came. Scarlett ordered a cappuccino in the tone of a woman who did not expect it to be drinkable. The waitress left.
I slid the envelope across the table.
Scarlett looked at it. Didn't touch it.
"What is that."
"Open it."
She did. One manicured nail slit the flap. She pulled the check halfway out, saw the number, and went very still. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. Her thumb brushed the edge of the paper the way a person touches something they've wanted for a long time.
"This is real," she said.
"Cashier's check. Drawn on a bank in Zurich. Clears in twenty-four hours."
She slid it back into the envelope. Set the envelope beside her sunglasses. Didn't take her hand off it.
"What do you want."
"I want you to sleep with my husband one more time."
The cappuccino arrived. Scarlett didn't look up. The waitress set it down and drifted away.
"On camera," I added.
Scarlett's mouth curved. Not a smile. Something smaller and colder. "You want a divorce settlement."
"I want what I want."
She picked up her cup. Blew on the foam. Took a sip. Her hand didn't shake.
"When," she said.
That was the whole conversation. No hesitation. No performance of reluctance. No pretense that she needed to think about it. She asked when the way another woman might ask what time a movie started.
"Before the gala. I'll send you the address. A suite at the Carlyle. Book it under his name. Tell him it's closure. Tell him whatever you want. Just make sure he comes."
"He'll come." She sipped again. "He's been calling me. He thinks he ended it. He hasn't."
I didn't answer.
She set the cup down. Slid the envelope into her purse. Pulled her sunglasses back over her eyes.
"You know," she said, standing, "I never understood you. Sitting in that dressing room. Pressing my gown. Fastening my necklace. I thought you were stupid."
She adjusted the strap of her bag.
"I was wrong," she said. "You're just patient."
She walked out. The bell over the door chimed once.
I sat there for another ten minutes. Drank half the coffee. It had gone cold.
***
The suite at the Carlyle had three cameras. One behind the vent above the bed. One inside the frame of the mirror across from the couch. One in the base of the lamp on the nightstand. A tech Maya knew from an old design job had come in that morning and installed them for cash. He didn't ask questions. He was gone in ninety minutes.
Brandon arrived at 7:14 p.m.
I wasn't there, of course. I was in my apartment in Tribeca—the small one I'd rented in secret two weeks earlier, under Maya's cousin's name—watching a laptop screen with the volume low.
He knocked. Scarlett opened the door in a silk robe. He stepped inside.
I watched him hesitate in the entryway. Just for a second. A flicker of the man who had signed the postnup. Then the flicker passed.
He said her name.
She said his.
He told himself it was just a conversation. I could see him telling himself. His hand went to his cufflink. Left. Right. That small precise reset.
Then he crossed the room.
I watched all of it.
Every touch. Every murmured promise. Every whispered you-know-I-still and I-tried-to-stop-thinking-about-you. The camera in the mirror caught his face when he closed his eyes. The camera in the vent caught the moment he told her he loved her.
He used the word love.
I noted the timestamp.
When it was over I closed the laptop. The apartment was very quiet. Outside, a garbage truck ground its way down the block. Somewhere upstairs a dog barked twice and stopped.
I didn't cry.
I'd thought I might. I'd left tissues on the coffee table just in case. They sat there untouched, still folded in their little paper sleeve.
I opened the laptop again. Transferred the files to three encrypted drives—one for me, one for Diana, one for a safety deposit box on the Upper West Side. I labeled the folders with the date and nothing else.
Then I picked up my phone and called Diana Lowe.
She answered on the second ring.
"It's done," I said.
A pause. Then, evenly: "How do you want to deliver it?"
I looked out the window. The city was lighting up, one lit square at a time, a grid of small warm rooms full of people I did not know.
"Publicly," I said. "At the gala. On the biggest screen in the room."
Diana didn't ask if I was sure.
"I'll draft the divorce filing tonight," she said. "We file the morning after."
I hung up.
I set the phone face down on the table.
My good hand rested flat beside it, perfectly still.
