“I’d love to,” she says.

As I lead her back to the corner booth, I tell her I’ve heard great things about her “influencing” from our mutual friend, Liz.

“Oh, I’m so excited to help in any way I can,” she says, clearly oblivious to my connection with Hannah.

A second later, we reach the booth, where Grady is scarfing down his biscuits. He looks up midbite, sees us together, and knows in an instant that he’s been played. Again. His face falls, his lips covered with crumbs.

“Grady! Heeey,” Munich says, looking surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Oh my God! No way!” I say, slapping my thigh. “You two know each other? What a small world!”

I look at Grady, who has yet to utter a word, and say, “Don’t be shy. Scoot over and make room for Munich!”

“Oh. My name is Berlin,” she says, as Grady slides the whole way over to the wall with a look of sheer panic.

“My bad!” I say.

“It’s totally okay,” she says as we sit across from each other. “I can see how that could happen! They’re both cities in Germany, after all!”

I smile and nod, relishing every second of her idiocy. “So, now that we’re all here together, should we get down to business?” I say, resting both my forearms on the table, leaning into my killer instinct.

“Sure!” Munich says, pulling a day planner out of her white Birkin bag. “Should I be taking notes?”

“Up to you!” I say. “I’ll let Grady kick things off. Would you like to start by telling Berlin how you and I know each other?” I ask him. “Or should I?”

He stares back at me, mouth agape.

“Okay, then! I will!” I say, shifting my gaze to Munich. “So. Crazily enough, I went to college with Grady’s fiancée, Hannah. Oops. Ex-fiancée!”

Munich’s smile instantly evaporates. She freezes, a deer in headlights.

“Ex?” she says, her face turning red.

“Oh. I’m sorry. You didn’t hear the sad news?”

“No…I didn’t know,” she stammers. “I’m so sorry.”

“That’s funny. Because you didn’t look very sorry on Friday afternoon,” I say, dropping the mic.

“Friday afternoon?” she says.

“Think back, hon,” I say. “Try real, real hard to recall what you were doing at around four or five o’clock, day before yesterday?”

“I don’t remember,” she whispers.

“Hmm. Well, might I refresh your recollection?” I say, using one of Tyson’s favorite legal phrases. “You were with him on Friday afternoon, weren’t you?” I point at Grady without looking his way.

Munich stares at me, furiously blinking back tears.

“Yes. We were together,” Grady cuts in. “But nothing happened. Berlin just came over to help me with something.”

“Oh. I see,” I say, nodding. “What was she helping you with?”

“She was consulting on a gift. For Hannah. Berlin is very good at that stuff.”

“Hmm,” I say, holding his gaze a beat before pulling out my phone and staring down at it. “Well, from the looks of this little video, she seems to be pretty good at some other things, too.”

“Video?” Munich says. “What video?”

“The video of you in Grady’s bed. Would you like to see it? The videography is ah-maz-ing,” I say with a chef’s kiss.

“Fuck,” Grady says under his breath as Munich sobs that she didn’t “mean to do it.”

“You didn’t mean to do it? How does that work, exactly? Were you air-dropped into his bedroom? Right onto his dick?”

“I’m sorry,” Munich sobs, mascara pooling under her eyes and streaming down her face. “I’m so sorry.”

“So you knew he had a fiancée?” I ask her, not letting up.

“I did, but he said things weren’t going well,” she sobs.

“I didn’t say that—” Grady says, turning on his co-defendant.

“Yes, you did, Grady!” she says.

“Well, the good news is—he’s all yours now! Hannah doesn’t want him anymore.”

They both stare at me.

“So now that that’s settled, let’s get down to some more business, shall we?” I roll up my sleeves for effect.

Grady nods, savvy enough to understand that the jig is up, while Munich continues to cry. I ignore her, staring into Grady’s cowardly eyes.

“So. Here’s what I’m thinking,” I say, rubbing my palms together. “Grady, I want you to go home, look around, and calculate the value of everything Hannah has either purchased or contributed to. Obviously, the big stuff, like furniture and rugs. But the little stuff, too. I don’t care if it’s a pot or a pan or a stick of deodorant. Add it allll up. Got it?”

“Got it,” he says through clenched teeth.

“Great! Feel free to add an idiot tax to that. And a commission for Hannah’s interior design services. Twenty percent. Maybe thirty?”

He nods as I shift my gaze to Munich.

“As for you,” I say, my voice dripping with disdain, “I want you off Instagram. And all social media.”

She stares at me, horror-stricken. It’s clearly a punishment worse than death.

“I don’t want Hannah—or anyone in Hannah’s orbit—to have to see your sorry face. Are we clear?”

She nods, then wipes her nose with her napkin.