“I won’t take you there. There will be decent people there, not at your level,” my husband declared, unaware that I own the company he works for.

The bedroom mirror reflected a familiar scene: I was adjusting the pleats of a modest gray dress I’d bought three years ago in an ordinary store. Dmitry was nearby, adjusting the cufflinks on his snow-white shirt—Italian, as he never tired of emphasizing at every opportunity.

“Are you ready?” he asked, without looking at me, while busily wiping the nonexistent …