The Car at the Curb
A dark gray Mercedes waited beside the building.
A man in a charcoal suit stepped out and opened the rear door.
“Good morning, Ms. Hartwell. Your daughters are already at the airport with Ms. Boone. Your luggage has been checked through to London.”
Behind me, Preston stopped walking.
“London?”
I turned.
“You’re leaving today?”
“Yes.”
“With the girls?”
“You signed the travel consent documents three weeks ago.”
His expression tightened.
He clearly hadn’t read them carefully.
That had always been one of Preston’s weaknesses.
He assumed paperwork mattered only when he was the person controlling it.
His eyes moved toward the Mercedes.
“Whose car is this?”
“Transportation.”
“Don’t play games with me, Lena. How are you paying for all this?”
I almost smiled.
During our marriage, Preston 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 marriage.
He knew my grandfather had once owned logistics businesses.
What he didn’t know was what happened after my grandfather retired.
Because he never asked.
So I never explained.
“Goodbye, Preston.”
I got into the car.
The door closed between us.
