Two nights ago, I had returned late from a high-stakes corporate gala for my logistics firm, exhausted and carrying my designer pumps. I found a note on the kitchen counter written in Preston’s arrogant, looping cursive.
“We took the private jet to Tahoe for a week with my parents and Chloe; you can handle the bill since you’re the reason we’re so stressed lately.”
I thought it was a cruel prank until I checked my office drawer and realized my black card was missing from its secure spot. I opened my banking app to find a mountain of charges for first-class seats, a five-star lodge, luxury rentals, and expensive dinners.
They had spent more in three hours than a person with any shred of dignity would spend in a year. But dignity was a foreign concept to them, as they only cared about the gilded image they projected to the world.
I didn’t scream or break a single glass in the house; instead, I called the bank to report the card stolen and froze every single pending transaction. My next call was to my lead counsel, Meredith, telling her that the moment we had been preparing for had finally arrived.