I turned off the screen and looked up at the towering white columns of the main pavilion.

“Shall we go in, Director?” Mr. Han asked, gesturing toward the private side entrance.

“Yes,” I said. “Let us begin.”

We walked past the flowering hibiscus bushes, avoiding the main lobby where my husband was likely bragging to the receptionists.

We reached the heavy oak doors of the executive boardroom.

Mr. Han reached for the polished brass handle, then stopped.

His tablet vibrated violently in his hand, flashing a red priority alert from the front desk.

He read the screen, and the color drained from his face.

“Director Arden,” Mr. Han whispered, turning to me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Your husband,” Mr. Han said, his eyes wide. “He is refusing to show his ID, and he just slapped the receptionist.”

“Call security,” Mr. Han said, his thumb hovering over his tablet.

“No,” I said, putting my hand over his wrist to stop him.

“But Director, he assaulted a staff member,” Mr. Han whispered, his jaw tight with anger.