My husband called me a whale, kissed his mistress in public, and told me to “dust the library.” Then he strutted into New York’s most exclusive Diamond Gala thinking he was untouchable.

By evening, Benedict was in Connecticut. Marcus Henderson arrived with boxes. Patricia Webb, her lead attorney, set up at the dining room table with two associates and a stack of filings. Special Agent Sarah Crawford joined by secure video from the Bureau.

Vivien, in leggings and an oversized sweater, hair unwashed, looked more dangerous to those people than she had in diamonds.

“Walk me through entrapment,” she said.

Patricia answered first. “His argument is that you deceived him as to your identity and funded opportunities that encouraged the criminal behavior later documented. It’s theatrically stupid, but we still crush it thoroughly.”

“Sarah?”

The agent’s voice came through the speaker. “Mrs. Sinclair was a cooperating witness for eighteen months. We directed documentation protocols. She did not induce criminal conduct. She preserved evidence of conduct already underway.”

Benedict slid a folder across the table. “One hundred forty-seven documented exchanges between this office, your legal counsel, and federal investigators. Time-stamped. Secure chain. Cross-referenced.”

“Good,” Vivien said. “And custody?”