After the divorce, I immediately froze $200 million. My cheating husband, eager and excited, took his mistress to buy a luxury apartment and nearly collapsed when he found out that his account had only 0 left. That day, the air in the courtroom smelled like floor wax and old decisions. I sat there staring at the divorce papers spread out on the mahogany table. The black ink of the letter seemed to swim before my eyes, but my hand was steady.
Across from me sat Alexander, no, Preston. Preston Clay, the man I had shared my bed, my breath, and my life with for 10 years. Beside him sat his mother, Lorraine, looking like the cat that had not only eaten the canary, but had also inherited the bird cage. “Just sign it, Meredith,” Preston said, checking his Rolex. He drumed his fingers on the table, a nervous habit he’d never broken.
“Let’s not make this harder than it needs to be. I have a lunch reservation at Le Bernardine.” A lunch reservation. He was ending our decade long marriage and was worried about missing the appetizer course. I looked up at him. He was handsome in that polished expensive way that money can buy but character cannot earn.
His suit was Italian, tailored to perfection, hiding the softness of a man who had never done a hard day’s labor in his life. And the settlement check is right there. Lorraine chimed in, adjusting the oversized pearls at her throat. Her voice was like scraping a diamond against a chalkboard. Sharp, expensive, and irritating. $5 million.
