Travis smiles, leans back against the edge of his desk. “You didn’t run off with that envelope full of money,” he notes. “You gave it to L.J. You didn’t call the police. You didn’t run off and try to snort that stuff yourself, and you didn’t throw it in a Dumpster like some scared little rabbit. No, you did exactly what you were told, without question, without hesitation, without fanfare. Do you know what that means, Bell?”

That I’m an idiot? A submissive? But I keep the thoughts to myself and simply shake my head.

“It means,” Travis says, drawing out the words, “that I can trust you.”

My lips curve up into a Mona Lisa smile. “And that,” I say softly, “truly means the world to me, Mr. Gable.”

Travis grins and looks up at the ceiling as if he’ll find his next move there. “Your résumé says you speak Spanish fluently. Is that true?”

“Sí.”

Travis chuckles as if I’ve made a joke. “Sí, that’s good. Tomorrow at eight I would like you to come to a meeting with me, off the premises, with one of our prospective clients. Since he is a prospective client I would like to keep the meeting confidential. No need to broadcast news before it’s been made.”

“Shall I meet you here?”

“No, be at my home. I’ll get you when I’m done here. Just be sure Jessica doesn’t send you out on any useless errands during that time.” He pauses a moment before adding, “How is my wife, by the way?”

“She’s . . . sad, Mr. Gable.”

“Sad. Now, that’s interesting.” Again he chuckles. “I’ve given her everything any woman could ask for and yet she’s sad.”

“If I remember correctly, you told her those gifts were simply on loan . . . or leased . . . I believe the words you used were ‘on lease.’ ”

“It’s still a good deal. She gets my name, one of the best penthouses in Manhattan, all the Botox and Juvéderm money can buy, a wardrobe that would make any supermodel jealous. I already got two kids out of her, so I won’t ask her for more. I paid for the mommy-job plastic-surgery session. She has access to drivers, maids, chefs . . . She’s never even had to dust a picture frame.”

“It’s a privileged life,” I agree.

“Yes, and all she has to do is lie on her back for me every once in a while, and not very often at that. Fucking her these days is a little too much like necrophilia for my tastes.”

Yes, because in so many ways your wife is already dead. You’ve been killing her for years.

“You would be grateful, wouldn’t you, Bell?”

The question is loaded.