At 2 AM, my husband secretly packed his luggage and slipped out of our bedroom like a thief. Thirty minutes later, he sent me a photo of himself and his mistress at the airport

of our Boston headquarters. Snow moved past the windows, blurring the harbor into a sheet of gray. Twelve directors surrounded the long walnut table. Several had known my father personally. Others had invested after Victor became involved. Every face appeared guarded.

Arthur Bell cleared his throat. “Claire, no one questions your competence.”

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