Margaret’s heavy diamond necklace trembled violently against her throat. “She’s lying!” she shrieked. “She’s a delusional, gold-digging liar! Someone get her off the stage!”
“And as of last month,” I continued, raising my voice to cut through the rising chaos, “my private equity firm became the largest outside institutional investor in the Sterling Hospitality Group.”
Harrison staggered back a step as if I had physically struck him.
“That’s impossible,” he breathed, his eyes darting frantically around the room.
“Is it?” I asked. “You needed cash, Harrison. Desperately. Your debt crisis six months ago almost dragged the entire company under. You authorized the secret sale of distressed shares through a proxy firm. You didn’t care who bought them, as long as the check cleared and the board didn’t find out about your massive mismanagement of the Chicago development.”
I paused, letting the reality of the situation sink into the humid air of the room.
“I bought those shares, Harrison. Through three different shell companies. I own thirty-two percent of your legacy.”
I was not marrying into wealth. I was wealth.
Preston’s luxurious, fragile life was entirely in my hands.
I reached into the hidden silk pocket my tailor had secretly sewn into the lining of my voluminous skirt and pulled out my smartphone. I tapped the screen and held it up to the microphone.
“Play it, Arthur,” I said, looking toward the third row.
Arthur Pendelton, my lead corporate attorney—who Harrison believed was a cheap, mall-office lawyer handling our prenup—stood up. He pressed a button on a remote control in his hand.
The two massive projection screens flanking the altar, originally intended to display a slideshow of our romantic engagement photos, flickered to life.
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