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.
