I was networking. You don’t understand how business works, Henderson.
You’re just an accountant. I’m a forensic auditor for the international banking division. Henderson corrected him without emotion, adding, “I’ve sent men to federal prison for less than what’s on page 4.” He turned to page 4.
Let’s talk about the gifts. This is where things get legally interesting. You see, embezzlement is a crime, but tax fraud—that’s where the government gets involved. Henderson pointed a long, bony finger at Tiffany’s neck.
“That necklace,” Henderson said, “the Cartier diamond pendant. You listed it on the company ledger as a computer hardware server upgrade. Cost 12,500.” Tiffany touched the necklace protectively. “It’s real. He bought it at the Fifth Avenue store. He bought it.” Henderson nodded. “With a company card registered to a nonprofit subsidiary dedicated to feeding orphans in Sudan. Technically, Miss Jenkins, you’re wearing an entire village’s food budget around your neck.”
The room gasped. The cruelty of it was palpable. Tiffany stared at the diamonds as if they were burning her skin. She struggled with the clasp, trying to rip it off. “Take it off!” she shrieked, throwing the necklace onto the table. “I didn’t know. He told me he was rich. He told me he was a self-made millionaire. He is self-made,” Vivian said, stepping closer. Her shadow fell over Preston. He made himself a criminal, but the best part, the absolute truth, the resistance, isn’t the money, Preston, it’s the identity.
Preston looked at her, his eyes pleading. Vivien, no, please, not that. I’ll sign anything. I’ll go alone. No. Vivien smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Mr. Henderson. Henderson pulled a final document from the folder. It was an old, yellowed piece of paper, a birth certificate. Ladies and gentlemen, Henderson announced to the room. We’ve been referring to this man as Preston Sterling, a fine aristocratic name. Sounds like old money, doesn’t it? Sterling, solid, valuable. He held up the paper, but there was no Preston Sterling.
Legally, this man changed his name four years ago. Before that, he was known as Preston Ale, a manager at Turnal Jr. car rental agency in New Jersey, who was fired for renting cars to himself on weekends. The humiliation was absolute.
The veneer of the high finance guru not only cracked, but shattered.
He wasn’t a fallen angel. He was a con man who hadn’t even successfully conned anyone, except for the wife who let him do it.
Oh, Mali. Grand Holloway laughed from the next table. God, that explains the cheap shoes. I always wondered why a Sterling wore loafers with rubber soles.
Preston sat amid the wreckage of his fabricated life. Sterling’s facade had been his armor. Without it, he was just a tall, greedy man in a suit he didn’t own. Why? Preston whispered, his voice cracking.
Why did you let me go on for so long? If you knew, why didn’t you stop me?
Vivien leaned in, her face inches from his. The scent of his expensive perfume, Jasmine Yud, filled his senses because Preston whispered just loud enough for the microphone to pick up. “I wanted to see how far you’d go. I wanted to see if there was any bottom to your greed.”
And honestly, I was curious if you’d ever, not even once, say thank you. She straightened up. You never did. The revelation of her real name seemed to break something fundamental in Preston. The arrogant posture collapsed.
A puppet whose strings had been cut collapsed in its chair. But the instinct for survival is a powerful drug.
As the shock subsided, a wild panic took hold. He looked around the room. The exits were blocked by security. The tables were crowded with witnesses.
He had no allies, except perhaps the one person he had dragged through the mud with him. He turned to Tiffany. She was currently dabbing her neck with a napkin as if trying to remove the stain from the stolen necklace.
Tiffany Preston Coo, grabbing her wrist. Tiffany, listen to me.
You have to support me. We can say that Vivien approved the expenses. We can say that she’s lying. She’s jealous.
We’ll sue her for defamation. Tiffany glared at him with a mixture of horror and disgust that was sharper than any knife. She jerked her hand away. “Are you crazy?” she shrieked. Her voice, usually a high-pitched chirp, was now a shrill weapon.
She has the receipts, Preston. She has the bank records.
You told me she was nobody. You said she was a little housewife who smelled like that. She stood up, turning to face Vivien. Tiffany knew exactly where the power lay now.
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