The truffle risotto is cold now. I stir it anyway, watching the grains clump together under the spoon. The duck I spent forty minutes searing to perfect medium-rare sits on the counter, congealing in its own fat. Nine-fifteen PM. Julian's text said he'd be home by seven. *Flying back early. Let's do dinner at home tonight. Been craving your risotto.* I'd smiled when I read it this morning. Smiled like an idiot while standing in Eataly, picking through white truffles that cost more per ounce than most people's weekly grocery bills. I thought it meant something—him choosing home over whatever deal he was chasing in Hong Kong. Choosing me. My phone sits face-up on the marble island. No missed calls. No texts since his message twelve hours ago. I call again. It rings four times, then voicemail. Julian's voice, smooth and apologetic: *You know what to do.* I don't leave a message this time. I've already left three. The apartment feels too big when he's not here. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, fourteen-foot ceilings, rooms we barely use. I'd loved it when we first moved in—loved how it felt like we'd made it, like we belonged in this stratosphere of wealth and success. Now it just feels empty. I dump the risotto down the disposal and watch it disappear. My phone buzzes. Finally. But it's not Julian. It's Marcus, his assistant—the anxious one who always looks like he's about to get fired. *Mrs. Hale, I'm so sorry. I thought you knew.* My fingers tighten around the phone. *Knew what?* Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. *Mr. Hale is at The Velvet Room. He said he'd be there until late. I assumed he'd told you.* The Velvet Room. Julian's private club in Tribeca, the one he co-owns with his business partners. The one with the unmarked door and the membership list that reads like a Forbes 400 index. The one I've never been invited to.