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.

“I’ll take everything from you,” he hissed. “I’ll take the baby if I have to. You think you’ve won because of one stupid show? I’ll make your life—”

A new voice cut through the room from the hall.

“Boy, the only thing you’re taking tonight is a concussion if you step one inch closer.”

Preston turned.

Gloria Sinclair stood in the doorway wearing a pink floral bathrobe, slippers, and holding a cast-iron skillet at shoulder height like a weapon consecrated by southern breakfast and moral certainty. Her expression was serene in the way some saints are serene in paintings of martyrdom and judgment.

Behind her stood Ruth with her phone in one hand and a fireplace poker in the other.

Preston stared. “Are you serious?”

Gloria raised her brows. “At my age, if I’m awake at three in the morning holding iron, I promise I’m serious.”

Ruth did not take her eyes off him. “Police are less than four minutes out. You can either get on the floor now or stand there and discover what two women with bad tempers and no patience can do.”