Damodar turned to me abruptly and whispered: “I want you to listen to me carefully.”

I was startled, and rather apprehensive at his sudden shift in tone.

“I need you to just trust me for three hours. Please, just follow along, as if there is nothing out of the ordinary.”

He looked at me with concerned, serious brown eyes, and I stared back, puzzled. He was grinning. I was worried. He continued.

“Just - do not react. Just play along. Please?”

“What’s going on -” I started, and he simply put his fingers on his lips. He’s shushing me now?

Before I could berate his insolence, he opened the car door and came over to my side to open mine.

Such chivalry! I looked at him angrily, and he simply pointed to the right with his eyes. A security camera. What are we now, James Bond?

I decided to delay the downpour of my wrath. He put his arm around my waist as we walked up to the auditorium and smiled sweetly. Perhaps for the other security cameras.

The auditorium was, in fact, a church. An elaborate attempt at aesthetic grandeur. At least, that was my best-faith reading. Built to fit four hundred people, it had been hollowed out to instead fit a long table for twelve, right in the centre. Candlelit and lantern-lit, decorated with items you could only find in a 17th-century shipwreck.

Damodar was oddly flamboyant and confident. Was he high? Flamboyant was perhaps a mischaracterization. He was bordering on reckless. My fingers dug harder into my arms. These were, after all, some of the richest investors in the state. The organisers, Mr. and Mrs. Bumbley, had bought the church simply for this intimate celebration.

“The prices are through the roof,” Mrs. Bumbley said airily, as the others found their seats at the dinner table. “We had to use all the tricks in the book to get a good bargain.”

“How much did you end up paying?” asked another lady at the table.

“Five million,” Mr. Bumbley replied with a sigh, chewing aristocratically.

“Oh,” said Damodar, with an air of mild amusement. “Is that a lot of money to you?”

The words drew an audible gasp. The Bumbleys throwing such an amount of money so frivolously was nothing short of disdainful. And matching that disdain was perhaps the embarrassment that was my husband.

I smiled through the rest of the courses like a hostage with good manners. When Damodar finally stood, thanked the Bumbleys, and steered me toward the door, I went willingly - anything to leave that table behind.

Mountains carpeted with greenery filled our windscreen as Hilltown receded in our rearview mirror.

“What the fuck was all that about?” I asked.

I was livid. And curious. I was more curious than livid. The further we drove away from the church, the more surreal it felt.

Damodar matched my perplexity with uncontrollable laughter. The man had lost his inhibitions.

“Merry Christmas!” he exclaimed, shoving my phone in my face. A new text message from Bumbley read, “We’re in. I have signed the contract. Let’s do it.”

Great. How did he do it? And why did it work? I hate when he’s like this. I’d miss him if he changed.