The website was the answer. It was used by several of his colleagues who, like Gabe, lived alone in the city all week while their families resided in Southampton, Amagansett, or Montauk. These girls—these sugar babies—did not cause problems. He was up front about the parameters of the relationship; no strings, though he classified himself as divorced in his profile. It was cleaner, simpler, and he attracted more women that way. (He didn’t wear a ring, never had, claiming it irritated his finger.) But this girl, Natalie, was not going to fall in love with him, threaten his marriage, or harm his impeccable reputation. Dating rich men was her job, a way to cover the rent, to eat in nice restaurants, to buy designer clothes. The girls he’d found on the site had given Gabe the attention, the adoration, the sex he needed. And then, when he grew tired of them, they conveniently disappeared.

The long black Lincoln pulled up in front of a brick warehouse converted into a row of bistros, shops, and bars. “We’re here, sir.” It was his driver, Oleg, a big man, square of shoulder and jaw. He was an immigrant from Moldova, providing service, discretion, and sometimes muscle, for a bargain price.

“Stay in the area. I’ll text you when I’m wrapping things up.”

“Of course, sir.”

As Gabe climbed out of the back seat, he thought about the girl he was about to meet. Her photograph had grabbed him instantly. Her cascade of dark hair, her pale skin, the glossy bow of her mouth. And her body in that tight black dress . . . He felt a flicker of excitement as he entered the rustic wine bar, the manager snapping to attention, recognizing a powerful, wealthy customer on sight. Gabe demanded a quiet table near the back, and his host dutifully complied.

Following the portly maître d’ through the buzzing establishment, Gabe felt the familiar weight of eyes on him. People were drawn to his confidence, his authority, his presence. He was a somebody, they could tell just by looking at him. Gabe was the kind of man who could walk into a crowded bar, insist on the best table, and somehow, it would materialize. And, when a beautiful woman, thirty years his junior joined him, no one would bat an eye.

He felt no guilt about his marital status as he handed the manager his coat and sent him off to fetch a drink. Both he and his wife were satisfied with their paper marriage. Celeste wanted for nothing; Gabe made sure of that. She had a beautiful home, a spacious property, domestic support. Her days were filled with yoga and pottery classes, massages and nutritional consults. Celeste took care of herself and their daughter. That’s all she had the energy for; there was none left for Gabe. And yet, he stayed, even though she had abandoned him: emotionally, physically, sexually. He was an attractive, virile man, who had stood by his wife, in sickness and in health. He deserved a fucking medal. And he deserved the sexy young woman who was about to enter the bar.