The theft of that card wasn’t the start of our problems; it was the final, undeniable proof I needed to close the door. For years, Preston had played the role of the successful venture capitalist, pretending to be the heir to a massive fortune in Philadelphia.
The reality was a messy trail of gambling debts, unpaid loans, and desperate favors begged from colleagues who had long ago stopped taking his calls. While I was building my empire from the ground up, he was sipping bourbon at my mixers and taking credit for my intellectual property.
The mountain estate his mother constantly threatened me with wasn’t theirs either, as it was legally tied to a private trust my grandfather established for me. Preston never knew the truth because he was too lazy to ever read the legal disclosures or the fine print on our prenuptial agreements.
“Julianne, I am ordering you to fix this,” Preston screamed into the phone. “Reactivate that account or don’t bother being here when I get back.”
“Don’t worry about that, Preston,” I replied calmly. “Very soon, you won’t have to worry about talking to me as your husband ever again.”