The Car Waiting at the Curb
A dark gray Mercedes waited beside the building. A man in a charcoal suit stepped out and opened the rear passenger door.
“Good morning, Ms. Hartwell. Your daughters are already at the airport with Ms. Boone. Your luggage has been checked through to London.”
Preston had followed me outside. I heard his footsteps stop behind me.
“London?”
I turned. For the first time all morning, he looked genuinely confused.
“You’re leaving today?”
“Yes.”
“With the girls?”
“You signed the travel consent documents three weeks ago.”
His forehead tightened. He clearly had not bothered to read them closely. That had always been one of Preston’s weaknesses. He assumed paperwork was only important when he was the person controlling it.
His gaze shifted toward the Mercedes. “Whose car is this?”
“Transportation.”
“Don’t play games with me, Lena. How are you paying for all of this?”
I almost smiled. During our marriage, Preston had convinced himself that because I stayed home for several years after Sophie was born, I had no financial life of my own. He knew I had done consulting work before we married. He knew my grandfather had once owned several logistics businesses. What he did not know was what happened after my grandfather retired. He had never asked. So I had never explained.
“Goodbye, Preston.”
He stared at me as I got into the car. The door closed between us.
