I had survived interrogations in black sites from Kabul to Kiev. I’d once spent forty-eight hours zip-tied to a chair in a sweltering Colombian warehouse while my team extracted an asset. But nothing, no amount of training or resilience, had prepared me for the way that single word—divorce—seemed to hollow me out, leaving an echoing void where my life used to be.

“Who is he?” I asked, my voice flat.

Christy stood, smoothing the front of a designer dress I didn’t recognize. When had she started dressing like this? When had our shared life become two separate, diverging paths? “That’s not relevant right now,” she said coolly. “My lawyer will contact yours.”