The truth was, Coralie and I had been friendly. Not close friends, but friendly enough that it had felt real. She remembered my birthday, asked about my wedding venue, and even looked at a photograph of my dress. For four years, I had sat across from a woman who was spending her weekends with my fiancé. She had asked whether I was excited for my wedding, knowing exactly what she was doing. Maybe it was cruelty. Maybe it was a test. Maybe she had simply become so good at separating parts of her life that she no longer felt the weight of any of them.

The review eventually confirmed a clear, undisclosed conflict of interest. Coralie resigned before the company could make a final decision. Desmond called eleven times over the next two weeks. He sent me a long message saying he had been unhappy and didn’t know how to tell me, as though unhappiness somehow excused betrayal. I read it once. I never answered.