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.

“Thirty seconds ago.”

“Good,” my father said, and then he said the thing I didn’t understand until later. “Because the card’s the small one, Mari. I need to see your company’s accounts tonight. Not the cards. The wires. I’ve got a feeling, and my feelings cost the government forty years of other people’s prison sentences, so humor me.”

I own a firm.

Marchetti Interiors.

Luxury residential and commercial design, twelve years old, forty employees, a floor on Wacker and a membership at The Sapphire Room, a private club downtown where my designers take clients, because you close a two-million-dollar penthouse renovation over oysters, not over a conference table.

The membership is corporate.

It’s in the company’s name.

Trevor had been to the club with me maybe a dozen times over the years, as my husband, as a guest on the company membership.

He was not a guest anymore.

The judge had said so five minutes before my father grabbed my arm.