Donna ended up exactly where women like her always swear they never will: cheap housing, thin walls, fluorescent lights, telling anyone who would listen that she had been targeted by jealous people. The gambling never truly left. It rarely does. It only finds new disguises when old doors close. She no longer had leverage, though. Only blame. And blame buys very little once the money stops clearing.
One year after the day she moved into my bedroom, my firm hosted its annual client gala at the Drake. If that sounds excessive, understand that financial power in Chicago prefers chandeliers and historic ceilings when it celebrates itself. The ballroom glowed gold. A quartet played near the stage. Bank executives, private equity partners, compliance officers, consultants, and bored heirs drifted beneath crystal light with champagne and expensive certainty.