She was a survivor, a parasite, searching for a new host, at least a way to avoid being crushed. “Mrs. Sinclair,” Tiffany exclaimed, clasping her hands together. I didn’t know, I swear.
He lied to me too. He told me they were separated. He showed me divorce papers.
He said they were only living together until the house sold. Vivian looked at the young woman. Her expression wasn’t angry, it was pitiful. Divorce papers? Vivian asked calmly. They were casually written in crayon.
He showed me a document. Tiffany insisted. Tears streamed down her face, tears of black mascara smearing her cheeks. He said you were crazy. He said he was the one who held the family together. I’m a victim here too. You’re a victim of your own stupidity, darling.
“But you accepted the gifts, you spent the money, you drove the car,” Vivien said coldly. “Ignorance is not a defense in a court of law, especially when you’re spending the GDP of a small nation on handbags.” Vivien snapped her fingers.
Two security guards stepped forward. “Escort Miss Jenkins out,” Vivien ordered, “and keep her in the security office until the police arrive. I believe there are several charges of receiving stolen property that we need to discuss with the authorities.”
No, no, you can’t. Tiffany screamed as the guards grabbed her arms. She kicked and thrashed her red dress, her dignity rising, vanishing completely. Preston, do something. Tell them, Preston.
Preston didn’t look up. He stared at the tablecloth, unable to meet her gaze. He let his lover, the woman to whom he had promised the world, be dragged away screaming. When the doors slammed shut, silence returned. Now it was just Preston and Vivien.
“You really are a coward, aren’t you?” Vivian said gently. “You couldn’t even defend her. You used her to boost your ego, and the moment she became a liability, you discarded her.” Preston slowly raised his head. His eyes were rimmed red with madness. “You planned this,” he spat. Anger was replacing fear. “You planned the whole gala tonight, the invitation. You set me up. I invited you to a party.” “Preston,” Vivien replied. “You’re the one who brought the audacity.”
“I made you.” Preston suddenly screamed, jumping to his feet and knocking over his chair. The force of the movement made nearby guests flinch. “I made you feel like a wife. I gave you a home. I gave you a purpose. Who were you before me? Just a rich girl hiding from the world. I gave you a life.” He was manipulating her in front of 500 people, trying to rewrite reality through sheer willpower. “I ran the house!” Preston screamed, his face turning purple.
I dealt with the contractors. I managed the landscapers. I carried the burden of leadership in our marriage. Vivian laughed. It was a genuine, dark laugh. “You managed the landscapers?” she asked, amused.
“Preston, the landscaper, is the head of my botanical research division. He was checking on the rare orchids in the greenhouse. He reported to me every week.
He told me you tried to tip him $ once and asked him to wash your car. She took another step closer, her voice dropping to a growl.
And as for giving me a life, I own the mortgage on the house you sleep in. I own the lease on the car you drive. I own your life insurance policy, even the suit on your back.
Look at the label, Preston. Preston looked down, confused. He grabbed his lapel. “Brioni, look deeper,” she said. “The manufacturer’s label.” With trembling fingers, he checked the inside pocket. There was a small tag beneath the brand name.
Property of Aurora Costume Dep. Asset Number 492. “You’re not wearing a suit, Preston,” Vivian said, her voice ringing with finality. “You’re wearing a costume. I had it brought from the studio lot this morning.”
The royal briona you ordered. I returned it for store credit three days ago. A collective gasp swept through the room. It was the ultimate emasculation. He was literally a clown in a borrowed suit. “You have nothing,” Vivien said, circling him like a shark. “You are nothing without me.”
You’re Preston Alie, the Clark car rental man, the one who got lucky. And tonight your luck ran out.” Preston looked around the room desperate for a lifeline. He saw Grand Holloway. He saw Lord Roth’s son.
He saw the faces of the elite. “Grant,” Preston pleaded, extending a hand. “Grant, you know me. We did business, the tech deal. I have skills, I have connections.” Grand Holloway picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth, looking at Preston with utter disdain.
Preston said Grant coldly, “The only contact you have is the one currently dismantling your life. If I were you, I’d stop talking. You’re just adding years to your sentence.” Preston choked.
Vivian signaled to the back of the room. The double doors opened again. This time it wasn’t waiters or models who entered. It was four NYPD officers, followed by two FBI agents in windbreakers. “You see,” Vivian said. “Oyend F is checking his diamond watch, the real one.”
While you were playing the big man, Mr. Henderson was filing a formal complaint with federal authorities regarding wire fraud, embezzlement, and corporate espionage, since the servers you used crossed state lines.
Well, now it’s a federal case. Preston’s knees gave way. He slumped back into his chair, but the seat slipped and he hit the floor with a heavy thud. He sat there on the expensive marble, a pile of borrowed clothes and torn sheets.
Vivien felt the tears finally coming out. Vivien, please, I’m your husband. We made vows for better or for worse. Vivien looked at him
The chandelier lights reflected in her eyes, making them look like hard, cold diamonds. “You broke those vows the moment you used our joint account to pay for a hotel room with Tiffany,” she said.
And as for whether it was for better or for worse, she leaned in, whispering the last words in his ear, so that only he could hear the death sentence of their marriage.
“You certainly got the best, Preston. Now for the worst.” She straightened up and nodded to the FBI agents. “It’s all yours, gentlemen. Please take care with the suit. I need to return it to the wardrobe department by Monday.”
The Archdale Hotel’s ballroom, usually a sanctuary of polite whispers and clinking glasses, had been transformed into a theater of justice. The arrival of the FBI had shattered the last vestiges of social decorum.
Two agents, resembling monolithic blocks of granite in their windbreakers, lifted Preston from his feet.
He stumbled, refusing to bear the weight of his new reality. The man who had entered expecting to be crowned king was now being treated like hazardous waste. Preston Ali announced the lead agent, his voice booming over the silence.
You are under arrest for wire fraud, bank fraud, aggravated identity theft, and embezzlement. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. Preston did not remain silent; he couldn’t.
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