From the beginning, I had kept parts of myself behind locked doors—not out of deception, exactly, but out of self-preservation. Men changed when they learned the scale of my wealth. Some became performatively humble. Some became strategic. Some began treating every disagreement like a misstep in a job interview. A few got greedy in ways they disguised as admiration. One proposed after seven months and, two glasses of wine later, asked whether I believed in prenuptial agreements “that protect both parties,” though he earned less in a year than my wine collection was worth.
I had wanted Derek to meet me unadorned by status.
He knew I worked in finance. He knew I had done well for myself. He knew I traveled often, took calls at strange hours, and guarded my privacy with the same firmness other people reserved for their children. He knew I had grown up in foster care, though I had given him only the outline of it, not the interior. He knew I disliked unnecessary attention and refused interviews more often than I accepted them.
He did not know that Ashford Capital Partners managed more than forty-seven billion dollars in assets.