Five minutes after my divorce was final, my father gripped my arm outside the courthouse and said, “Block every card, right now.” That night my ex tried to spend $300,000 on his mistress’s sapphire necklace with my company’s black card — in a club my firm owned.

“The necklace—”

“Went back in the case. You watched it happen. Desmond called me at nine last night to confirm I wanted him to decline it, and I said yes, and he said, ‘Ms. Marchetti, I’ve been wanting to do that for a year,’ and I said ‘why a year,’ and he said, ‘because Mr. Shaw’s been bringing Ms. Cole here as your guest since last spring, and the staff all knew, and none of us knew how to tell you.'” I looked at him. “The whole club knew, Trevor. For a year. The waiters knew. The coat check knew. The only person who didn’t know was me, and the only reason I know now is that you got greedy enough to try two hundred thousand dollars on a dead woman’s prenup.”

“A dead—”

“My mother. She made me sign it. I hated her for it. I called her controlling. She died in 2022 and I never told her she was right.” My voice did something and I let it. “She read you in 2016, at our engagement dinner. She said, ‘That man watches your accounts more than he watches you.’ I told her she was being cruel. She put the business in the prenup anyway. You’ve spent fourteen months stealing from a company my dead mother protected from you before you ever got your hands on it. Sit with that. Then leave my office.”