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“Sorry, pups, but I’ve seen enough banging today,” I say, amazed that I can make even remote lightness of the situation. “Clearly, this hasn’t sunk in yet.”

From nowhere, the tears I’ve been holding back, that I never shed because I’m generally restrained with displaying emotion, start to fall, and a short sob escapes me.

“The wine, Mitch!” Lauren calls.

As if by magic, our butler appears, handing us each a glass of something I drain too quickly to appreciate.

“That’s a nice white,” Mitch says, not at all angry.

Still, I tell him apologetically, “I’ll appreciate the second glass, I promise.” I’m not a heavy drinker – mostly my socializing consists of networking PRs, comms teams at sports clubs and brands, and players who, ironically, I get out of trouble when they sow their seeds in the wrong flowerpots or decide to drop their gloves off the ice.

Over the bottle of wine, I relay to my friends what happened and mourn the loss of a very expensive box of cupcakes that I’m now sufficiently tipsy to want to binge.

“He’s been weird for months but I put it down to business and stress. We’re not often both in the same state, let alone at home together.” I glance between my friends. “That’s the job, though, right? It’s everything we’ve been trying to build for five years.”

I sniff, swiping my hand under my nose inelegantly. “Once a cheater, always a cheater. This is my karma, I guess. I broke up his relationship when we got together – unknowingly, in my defense – and I was so blinded by the smart, older guy, that I stayed.”

Lauren strokes my hair. “Do you know what I think you need, Sienna?”

“More wine?”

Smiling with an awfully high level of pity for me, the waning mess on her sofa, she takes my empty glass and hands it off to Mitch. He’s been quietly listening in for however long I’ve been monologuing, occasionally doing things to make the space more comfortable, like turning on the fire setting on their television streaming service and playing smooth Jazz through their sound device.

“Las Vegas,” Lauren says.

“It’s a no-brainer,” Mitch adds, calling through from the kitchen.

“It’s Tray and Amelie’s ten weddings weekend,” Lauren explains. “Ten weddings in one day, a ceremony for each year they’ve been together. That’s what Tray promised her if the Dragons won the Stanley Cup last season.”

“I remember. I was invited but couldn’t afford the time off work,” I say, accepting what I promise will be my last glass of numbing antidote to Carl’s poison.

Tray is the captain of the Dragons. We met when I worked for him a few years back, when a story of lies about him went viral and threatened his and Amelie’s relationship. They’ve both remained friends with me, though never seemed to gel with Carl.

The exact kind of company I’d like to keep right now.

But… “Vegas?” An adult playground? “That doesn’t sound like the rational thing to do here. What about work? I can’t just stop because my life is imploding.”

“A few things,” Lauren says, standing unsteadily, in a way that tells me she’s been matching me drink for drink. She tucks into Mitch’s side and he hooks an arm around her shoulder.

“First,” she says, holding up a finger. “Your life is not imploding. It’s presenting you an opportunity for improvement.”

I let out a short laugh, fueled undoubtedly by inebriation rather than true belief.

“Second,” Mitch says, “Carl is and always has been a dick. He deserves to find out what happens if you take off from work because he’s been riding on your shirttails for long enough.”

“Third.” Lauren holds up four digits, which Mitch corrects by tucking one down. “Didn’t he call it his company, right after he screwed your secretary in your bed?”

Oh, God. The reality is brutal. I stand to meet them in the middle of the lounge and we ting together our glasses. “Vegas.”

“Most people are booked on a charter flight but some latecomers are on a commercial red eye tomorrow. I’ll book you a spot,” Lauren says.

“Tomorrow? Thursday?” I gawp, as this mad plan oozes into my brain through the fog of wine.

“The red eye,” Mitch says, inclining his head to the liquid I’m going to regret in a matter of hours. “It’s a long weekend trip.”

In a move that is wholly spontaneous and, therefore, unlike me, we seal the agreement with a drink.

“Do you want to know the best part?” I ask. “I’ve been working for our company all this time as an employee for the sake of my visa sponsorship. When Carl and I were married, I was going to switch to being a co-owner.”