Dorsia. The apex of Manhattan dining. Where the waiters wore better suits than most executives and the lighting was designed to flatter no one—except those who deserved it. The golden glow danced off the rim of my crystal glass as I swirled the 1990 Puligny-Montrachet, chilled to perfection. I tasted it. Smooth. Delicate. Impeccable. Almost enough to distract me from the conversation at hand.

Almost.

She was talking—my wife. Something about art auctions or Pilates or the unbearable lighting in our Tribeca loft. I nodded occasionally, letting the familiar cadence of her voice wash over me like white noise. Predictable. Comfortable. Dull.

Then the door opened.

My eyes shifted, instinctively, like a predator catching the scent of something rare. She walked in like she owned the room—tall, poised, her silhouette poured into a black dress that understood her body better than most lovers ever could. Hair glossy, lips lacquered, and her breasts—full, high, proud. They entered a moment before she did.

I tracked her as she was led to a table near ours, the hostess smiling too widely, the men pretending not to stare. I didn’t pretend.

I took a sip of wine and looked back at my wife. She was still talking.

I tilted my head slightly, the way I do when preparing to say something that will be mistaken for care but is, in truth, pure observation.

“Darling,” I said, cutting in gently, my voice smooth as the Chardonnay, “have you ever considered getting breast implants?”

I didn’t wait for the reaction. Just raised my glass and drank. The wine was exquisite. The mood, slightly more interesting now.