Zara was sixteen when the evidence began to pile up like contrails. She woke to the soft click of the front door at 12:03 a.m.—the same sound that ended every “client dinner.” She lay still, counting the familiar choreography: heels off in the hallway (two muted thuds)

The click of Sabeen’s Louboutins echoed through the glass corridors of Canary Wharf like a metronome keeping time for her double life. At forty-two, she still turned heads in the open-plan trading floor of Harrington & Black—tailored charcoal suits, silk blouses the colour of fresh blood, and those