Hours later I was in the office of Graham Albright, one of the nastiest family attorneys in Philadelphia. His office smelled like leather, cedar, and consequences. He wore silver-framed glasses and the kind of suit that said he had never once apologized for winning. He had already printed Prescott’s demand letter by the time I arrived.
Graham read it aloud for his own amusement. Prescott wanted a forensic audit of my finances. He wanted equitable division of marital assets. He wanted compensation for reputational harm. He wanted to bully first and understand later.
When Graham finished, he leaned back and laughed. “I have represented sovereign-wealth heirs, hedge-fund monsters, and one celebrity with four concurrent spousal disputes,” he said. “And I can say with complete professional confidence that your husband is one of the dumbest men I have ever encountered.”
I handed him the prenup. He read it once, then again more slowly. “This,” he said, tapping the pages, “is a masterpiece. Not for him. For you.”
We had reviewed the agreement together before I signed it five years earlier, just to be certain there were no hidden traps. Graham had told me then, with visible delight, that Randolph’s greed had made him careless. The prenup was too clean, too absolute. It protected Prescott from a poor bride but would also protect a rich one from Prescott.
Now Graham set the document down and grinned. “He gets exactly what his father wanted him to get. What is his stays his. What is yours stays yours. No alimony, no participation, no reach into premarital structures, no share of inherited appreciation. File today?” I said. He nodded once. “Done.”
The divorce stopped mattering to me after that. Not emotionally. Emotionally it had ended on marble with a handprint on my face. What mattered now was the company.
Because the eleven-million-dollar tax discrepancy I had exposed at the gala was only one fracture in a collapsing structure. Randolph’s firm was carrying nearly three hundred million dollars in toxic debt tied to failing developments, phantom assets, and short-term financing arranged by people who mistook debt for intelligence. The largest obligations were coming due in less than seventy-two hours.
My father’s team had already begun circling the debt months before, quietly, patiently, waiting to see whether I wanted the net pulled. All I had to do now was say yes.