The surrounding socialites chirped with cruel amusement. “She’s irrelevant,” Vivien said, dismissing Tiffany as if she were a speck of dust on a lens. Her eyes pierced Preston again. “I’m not here to embarrass you, Preston. I’m here to audit you.”
“Audit me?” Preston scoffed, trying to regain some composure. “You don’t even know how to balance a checkbook, Vivian. I handle the finances. I make the money.” A chilling smile spread across Vivian’s face. “You do, you really do.”
She walked away from him toward the small stage that had been set up for the speeches. “Ladies and gentlemen, if you would be so kind as to take a seat, we have a few matters to discuss before dinner is served.” Preston froze. He wanted to run for the exit, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The security guards at the doors were now eyeing him, not with respect, but with the professional vigilance reserved for a potential security threat. Grand Holloway nudged him.
I suggest you sit down, Preston. I believe your wife is about to give the keynote address. Dazed, Preston allowed himself to be led to a table directly in front of the stage. It wasn’t a place of honor; it was the defendant’s chair. Tiffany sat beside him, anxiously checking her phone, probably realizing that her sugar daddy was about to go bankrupt. The ballroom went dark, except for the spotlight on Vivien. She stood at the podium, a figure of immense authority.
“Thank you all for coming,” Vivien began, her voice amplified through the high-end sound system. “We’re gathered here to celebrate success, wealth, and philanthropy. The Aurora Group has always operated behind the scenes. My father, a brilliant mechanic from Ohio, taught me that real power doesn’t need to shout, it just needs to work.” Preston’s head jerked up. His father was a mechanic. He hadn’t lied about that, but he’d assumed the man died poor.
My father also invented a fuel injection component in the late 1970s. Vivian continued scanning the room. He patented it. It’s currently in about 60% of all combustion engines on the planet.
When he died, I inherited a modest fortune. I built that fortune into an empire. A murmur rippled through the crowd. The injection patent was legendary among the older financiers; it was the kind of old-school money base that commanded instant respect.
Over the past five years, however, Vivien said, her tone hardening,
“I’ve been conducting a sort of social experiment, a fusion, if you will. I wanted to see if a man could love a woman for who she was, not for what she possessed. So I played a role.”
I became just a housewife. I let my husband Preston take the lead. Preston felt every eye in the room swivel toward the back of his head. They burned like lasers.
I gave her seed capital to start her own venture capital firm, Sterling Ventures, Vivian said. She pressed a button on a clicker. The enormous screen behind her, meant to display photos of starving children in need of charity, came to life.
It displayed a complex corporate organizational chart. At the top was the Aurora group. Below it were a dozen shell companies with confusing names like Nebula Holdings and Orion Acquisitions.
At the bottom, feeding off the scraps, was Sterling Ventures. Preston believed he was securing investments from various international clients.
Vivi narrated tersely. In reality, every dollar in her firm came from MEI, funneled through these shell companies. I’m their only investor. I’m their only client. I’m their only source of income. Preston stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
That’s a lie. I closed the deal with Tokyo last month. Oh, sit down, Preston. Vivian ordered, her voice echoing off the walls. The authority in her tone was absolute. He sat down. She clicked the button again.
The screen switched to a bank statement. The Tokyo deal, Vivian said, was financed by Orion Acquisitions, my company. You were negotiating with my lawyers, Preston.
You thought they were Japanese businessmen because I hired Japanese actors to sit in the room while my legal team spoke over the speakerphone. You were too busy trying to impress them with your watch to notice they didn’t understand the financial jargon.
Laughter rippled through the room. It was cruel, sophisticated laughter. And speaking of the clock, Vivien said, clicking it again.
A credit card statement appeared. It showed the Rolex purchase. You told your friends you bought it with your bonus. I bought mine for our anniversary. You told me it was too flashy and left it in a drawer, only to wear it when you were out with your mistress. The screen now rapidly cycled through a montage of Preston’s failures and lies, a receipt for the Brioni smoking jacket he was wearing, paid for by an Aurora subsidiary. The lease for his Mercedes, guaranteed by Vivian Sinclair.
A series of hotel bills for the St. Regis, always booked under Mr. Smith’s name on Tuesday afternoons when he was supposed to be in board meetings. “I’ve spent five years subsidizing your delusions of grandeur, Preston,” Vivien said, her voice dropping to a deathly quiet calm.
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