The Ledger

I am standing on the teak deck of *Aurelia*, the eighty-foot yacht that cost more than my first three cars combined. It is Saturday night in Monaco. The air smells of salt and expensive sunscreen.

Patrick stands three feet away, wearing a tuxedo that fits his shoulders perfectly because he owns the shipyard that built the jacket. We are married. We signed the papers at noon in a windowless office in Fontaine du Soleil. He is the heir to the yard, and if he is not wed by midnight on Sunday, the will reverts to the family trust. I am forty, and I am the insurance investigator who proved last year that two of his grandpa’s prototypes sank for the cash.

I need the ledger. Only the wife gets the ledger.