Two weeks after I filed the letter under *Personal*, Colson cancelled our dinner reservation.
Seven-thirty at Le Bernardin. Anniversary of our first date. I had the dress on already, the black one with the open back he used to trace his fingers down when we were alone in elevators. I was fastening my second earring when his text came through.
*Emergency with L's presentation materials. Can't make it. Sorry.*
L.
Not even her full name anymore.
I read it twice. I did not throw the phone. I took the earring out, put it back in the box, and changed into jeans and a sweater. Then I went to Le Bernardin anyway. I ate alone at the bar. Oysters, dover sole, the chocolate thing that comes with gold leaf. I ordered the wine he would have ordered. I drank two glasses.
The bartender asked if I was celebrating.
"Something like that," I said.
I paid with the card that still said *Mrs. Colson Burke* and left a forty percent tip.
Outside, the February wind came off the Hudson like a slap. I stood on the sidewalk and pulled my coat tighter. The street was quiet for Manhattan. A few cabs, a couple walking past with their arms linked.
I heard the engine before I saw the car.
A black Audi, reversing out of a parallel spot too fast. I stepped back instinctively, but my heel caught the edge of the curb. The bumper hit my left leg just below the knee.
Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough to drop me.
I went down on the concrete, palms out, and felt the skin tear. My stockings shredded. Something hot ran down my shin.
The car stopped.
The door opened.
Leighton Willis stepped out in a cream coat and heels too high for driving. Her mouth made a small *oh* shape.
"Mrs. Burke—"
I didn't answer. I was looking at my leg. Blood, dark against the sidewalk. My knee was screaming.
"I didn't see you, I swear, the lighting—"
Another car pulled up. I knew the sound of the engine. Colson's Range Rover.
He got out fast. His coat was open, tie loosened. He looked at the scene—me on the ground, Leighton standing by her car door, her hand over her mouth.
He went to her first.
I watched him do it. I was still on the concrete, blood soaking into what was left of my stockings, and I watched my husband cross the sidewalk and put his hand on Leighton Willis's shoulder.
"Are you okay?" His voice was low, steady. The voice he used in boardrooms.
"I think so. I just—I didn't see her, Colson, I swear—"
"It's okay. Just breathe."
I counted to ten.
Then I said, very clearly, "Colson."
He turned. Looked at me like he was just remembering I was there.
"Anaya. Jesus." He started toward me, but he didn't let go of Leighton's shoulder until she nodded at him.
He crouched down. "Can you stand?"
"I don't know yet."
He reached for my arm. I pulled it back.
"Don't."
His jaw tightened. "You're bleeding."
"I'm aware."
Leighton's voice came from behind him, small and shaking. "Should I call an ambulance?"
"No," I said. I looked past Colson, straight at her. "You should stay exactly where you are."
She blinked. Her hand fluttered to her collarbone.
I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket. My palms were scraped raw and the screen smeared red when I unlocked it, but my hands were steady. I opened the voice recorder. Hit record. Held it up between Colson and me.
"Fifty thousand dollars," I said. "Cash. Tonight. Say yes on record."
Colson stared at me. "What?"
"Your assistant just hit me with her car. I'm injured. Witnesses." I nodded toward the couple across the street, stopped on the corner, watching. "Fifty thousand. Or I call the police and we do this the long way."
"Anaya, for God's sake—"
"Say yes, Colson."
His face did something I'd never seen before. Not anger. Confusion. Like I was a stranger using his wife's voice.
Behind him, Leighton made a soft sound. "It was an accident. The lighting is terrible here, I didn't—"
"Fifty thousand," I said again. I didn't look at her. I kept my eyes on my husband. "On record. Now."
The wind picked up. A cab rolled past, slow.
Colson's hand was still halfway extended toward me, hovering in the air like he'd forgotten what it was for.
"Fine," he said finally. "Yes. Fifty thousand."
I stopped the recording. Pocketed the phone.
A man in a long coat was passing on the sidewalk. I held up my scraped palm toward him.
"Excuse me. Could you help me up?"
He stopped, looked at Colson, then back at me. He took my hand carefully and pulled me to my feet. My knee buckled and I hissed through my teeth, but I stayed upright.
"Thank you," I said.
"You need a hospital," the stranger said.
"I'll manage."
I stepped past Colson without looking at him. A cab was idling at the corner. I limped toward it, each step a bright bolt of pain up my thigh.
Behind me, Colson's voice: "Anaya—"
I opened the cab door. Slid in. Gave the driver my address.
As we pulled away, I looked back once through the rear window.
Colson was still standing in the street. Leighton was beside him, her hand on his arm, her head tilted up toward his face.
He was looking down at her.
I turned forward and closed my eyes.
The cab smelled like air freshener and old coffee. My leg throbbed. My palms burned.
I took my phone out, opened my banking app, and checked the balance on the account Colson didn't know about.
Three hundred and forty-seven thousand.
By morning, it would be three hundred and ninety-seven.
I smiled.
It didn't reach my eyes, but that was fine.
I didn't need it to.
