The first time I saw my husband holding his secretary’s second baby, I smiled so calmly that everyone in Chicago high society assumed something inside me had finally died.
They were wrong. Nothing in me had died. I was simply measuring how fast his entire world was about to collapse.
Preston loved admiration more than he loved honesty. That was always his fatal weakness. At Westbridge Meridian’s annual charity gala, a company I had helped him grow from a cramped little startup into a real estate empire, he entered through the grand golden doors with Brooke on his arm.
