At my husband's company party, he stru:ck my shoulder and whispered, “Go home. She belongs beside me tonight.” His mistress stood nearby in a tight red gown, pretending not to hear.

The federal courthouse in South Boston smelled of polished marble, ozone, and old paper.

In a soundproof deposition room on the fourth floor, Camilla Price sat opposite Evelyn Cross and an assistant United States attorney named Karen Vance (no relation, but possessing the exact same unyielding precision).

Camilla was barely recognizable. The tight red dresses, the blowout hairstyles, and the diamond heirlooms were gone. She wore a simple gray cotton sweater provided by her public defender, her dark hair pulled back in a severe ponytail.

Across the table, I sat beside Evelyn, watching in silence.

“State your name and former position for the record,” the court reporter intoned.

“Camilla Price. Former Director of Communications, Aurelia Systems,” she said, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

“Ms. Price,” Assistant U.S. Attorney Vance began, leaning over a stack of indexed transcripts. “You have entered into a preliminary proffer agreement with the government. Do you understand that any false statement made in this room will immediately void your plea deal and expose you to the maximum statutory penalty of twenty years for wire fraud and interstate transport of stolen property?”

“I understand,” Camilla said, her lip trembling.

“Let’s discuss the night of the twentieth-anniversary gala at the Halcyon Hotel,” Evelyn Cross said, taking over the questioning. “Did Mr. Julian Vance instruct you to attend the gala wearing the pear-cut diamond earrings belonging to Mrs. Nora Vance?”

Camilla glanced up at me. For a second, a flicker of the old resentment flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly extinguished by the cold reality of the prison sentence hanging over her head.

“Yes,” Camilla whispered.

“Louder, please,” the court reporter said.

“Yes,” Camilla said, her voice cracking. “Julian told me... he said Nora was weak. He said she was an insecure recluse who was terrified of public confrontation. He told me that by appearing beside him as the de facto first lady of Aurelia, we would force the board to accept me as part of the leadership team. He said Nora would be too humiliated to speak up, that she would go home quietly and file for an uncontested divorce without looking at the books.”

“And the earrings?” Evelyn pressed.

“He gave them to me two nights before the party,” Camilla sobbed, dabbing at her eyes with a coarse paper tissue. “I asked him if they were hers. He laughed. He said, ‘She hasn’t worn them in three years. She doesn't even know what she owns. Take them. You look like a real executive’s wife; she looks like an unmade bed.’”

The court reporter’s keystrokes clicked in the silence like tiny hammers.

“And regarding Apex Media?” the federal prosecutor asked. “Was Julian Vance aware that no marketing work was being performed by your brother?”

“It was Julian’s idea!” Camilla cried out, throwing her hands in the air. “He drafted the fake invoices himself! He said the board was too stupid to question communication retainers! He said we would take two million dollars out of Aurelia, let the stock collapse, and then Northstar or another vulture fund would buy it out, leaving us with our offshore accounts intact!”

“Did he ever mention Northstar’s ownership structure to you?” Evelyn asked.

Camilla shook her head, tears spilling freely down her hollow cheeks. “Never. He swore Northstar was run by an old banking committee in New York that never paid attention to regional assets. He had no idea Nora owned it. None of us did. He thought... he truly believed he was the smartest man in every room he walked into.”

I stood up from the table.

Camilla looked up at me, her eyes pleading, desperate for some sliver of female solidarity or pity that she had never once extended to anyone else.

“Nora, please,” she whimpered. “I was stupid. I let him manipulate me. He promised me everything. He promised me a life I couldn't afford on my own. Don't let them send me to Danbury.”

I looked at her, remembering the smug smile she had worn when she stood beside Julian by the champagne table, whispering, “Nora, perhaps this isn’t the right evening for a domestic scene.”