Chapter 4
Preston
I adjust my Hermès tie and check my Rolex.
Another Tuesday morning at Darlington Investments, another day of building the empire my great-grandfather started.
The mahogany-paneled corner office reflects my success — floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Manhattan, Italian leather furniture, and a bar cart stocked with twenty-year-old Macallan.
The silver-framed wedding photo on my desk shows Snow in her Vera Wang gown, looking exactly as a Darlington bride should: beautiful, elegant, perfect.
Everything a man of my stature deserves.
“Good morning, Mr. Darlington,” Nicolette says, gliding into my office with her usual professional efficiency.
She’s carrying my morning coffee — black, no sugar, exactly as I like it — and looking impeccable as always in a tailored navy suit that shows off her figure without being inappropriate.
Hot Ass, I’ve saved her as in my phone - because let’s be honest, it’s impossible not to notice.
She’s been an exemplary assistant for six months now, though I’ve noticed she’s been oddly resistant to my subtle advances.
Most women in her position would be flattered by the attention of a Darlington.
“Morning, Nicolette,” I say, using my most charming smile. “You look lovely today. That color brings out your eyes.”
She gives me a polite, professional smile that doesn’t quite reach those dark eyes. “Thank you, sir. Your nine o’clock is here.”
Interesting. Still playing hard to get. I do enjoy a challenge. “Excellent. Nicolette, could you make reservations at Le Bernardin for tonight? Table for two. Eight o’clock.”
“Of course. Should I call Mrs. Darlington to confirm?”
The question catches me off guard. Why would she assume it’s for Snow? “No, that won’t be necessary. It’s a business dinner.” I give her a meaningful look. “With someone who appreciates fine dining.”
She nods, her expression unchanged. “I’ll take care of it right away.”
As she turns to leave, I can’t help but admire the view.
That navy suit fits her perfectly — professional in the front, but from behind?
Worth every penny I pay her, and then some.
Hot Ass indeed. She has a natural polish that took years to cultivate in Snow.
When I met my wife, she was all bohemian charm and unrefined authenticity — beautiful, but rough around the edges.
I fell hard for that untouched quality. And I’ve spent six years refining her into the perfect Darlington wife.
She’s elegant now, poised, exactly what a woman in her position should be.
Nicolette seems to have been born with the kind of sophistication I had to teach Snow.
My phone buzzes with a text from Krystal, my marketing consultant from Miami.
Missing you. When are you coming back?
I glance at the wedding photo on my desk — Snow’s radiant smile frozen in that perfect moment — and turn it face down before responding. I smile and type back a quick response.
Soon, beautiful.
The thing about marriage that women never seem to understand is that it’s a partnership, not a prison.
I love Snow — of course, I love her. She’s my wife, the mother of the children we’ll have someday, the perfect hostess for my social obligations.
But a man has needs. Physical needs that a delicate flower like Snow couldn’t possibly satisfy.
I’m discreet about my other arrangements, careful never to embarrass her publicly.
It’s really quite considerate when you think about it.
“Mr. Darlington?” Nicolette’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “There’s someone here to see you. A delivery.”
I glance up to see a young woman in a delivery uniform standing in my doorway, nearly obscured by an enormous bouquet of giant pink and white balloons. And they all say the same thing in sparkly script: It’s a Girl!
Three of them. Three massive It’s a Girl! balloons bobbing cheerfully in my office doorway.
For a moment, I’m confused. Then a warm rush of satisfaction floods through me. Snow’s pregnant. She has to be. Why else would she be sending me It’s a Girl! balloons?
A baby girl. A Darlington daughter. Mother will be thrilled. My chest swells with pride. “Come in, come in!” I’m already standing, beaming, imagining telling the board at lunch that I’m going to be a father. “Nicolette, get your phone out. We should take a picture—”
The woman enters, and I notice she’s not alone. Behind her is a stocky man in an ill-fitting suit, and behind him is a woman in a sequined dress and a feather boa, followed by two more people wearing party hats. One of them is holding a ukulele.
“Preston Darlington the Third?” the stocky man asks.
“Yes, yes, that’s me.” I’m still smiling, distracted by the balloons. Do I call Snow now? Should I—
“You’ve been served.” He thrusts a manila envelope into my hands.
The words don’t register at first. I’m still staring at the balloons. “Served with what?”
“Divorce petition,” he says matter-of-factly.
The balloon-delivery woman grins and ties the bouquet to one of my guest chairs, then steps back with a theatrical flourish. Before I can process what’s happening, the woman in the feather boa starts singing. Actually singing. In my office.
“Congratulations, Preston Darlington, you’re getting divorced today!” Her voice is operatic, way too loud, echoing off the glass walls. “It’s a girl, it’s a girl, it’s THREE different girls! You’ve been cheating left and right, thinking you were slick at night—”
Pop! Pop! The others set off glitter poppers, and a cascade of silver and pink confetti explodes into the air, drifting down onto my Italian leather chairs, my mahogany desk, my twenty-thousand-dollar rug.
The balloons bob cheerfully above it all. It’s a Girl! It’s a Girl! It’s a Girl!
“What the—” I spin around, and that’s when I see them.
Faces. So many faces. Pressed against the glass walls of my office, staring.
Junior analysts. Assistants. People from accounting.
The managing director from the floor below.
All of them watching the spectacle unfolding in Preston Darlington III’s corner office.
All of them staring at those goddamn It’s a Girl! balloons.
My face burns. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not in front of everyone. What will Mother think when she hears about this? The thought hits me with a wave of nausea. She will hear about it. Of course, she’ll hear about it. Someone will talk. Someone always talks.
“Get out,” I say, but my voice comes out strangled, weak. “Get out of my office right now.”
The singer takes a deep breath, preparing for another verse. “Your wife found out about your sleazy ways, now she’s done with all your cheating days! It’s a girl, it’s a girl, it’s THREE different girls—”
I feel myself starting to lose it completely. My hands are shaking. There’s glitter on my Hermès tie. Those obscene balloons are bobbing mockingly. People are taking photos through the glass. Photos of me, of the balloons. This is a nightmare. This is—
“Alright, that’s enough.” Nicolette’s voice cuts through the chaos. She steps fully into the office, her expression cold and professional. “Out. Now.”
The singing stops. The ukulele player freezes mid-strum.
“But we have two more verses—” the singer protests.
“I said out.” Nicolette’s tone brooks no argument. She herds them toward the door. “Leave.”
They shuffle out, looking deflated. Nicolette follows them to the doorway, then turns to face the crowd still pressed against the glass. “Back to work. All of you. Show’s over, people. Move along.”
There’s a moment of hesitation, then the crowd slowly disperses. Faces disappear from the glass. The murmur of voices fades.
Nicolette turns back to me. For just a moment, I swear I see the ghost of a smile on her face, but it’s gone so quickly I might have imagined it. “Would you like me to call your attorney, Mr. Darlington?” she asks, her voice perfectly neutral.
I’m still standing there, holding the manila envelope, glitter clinging to my hair and shoulders.
Those damned balloons are still here, cheerfully announcing my humiliation to anyone who walks past my glass-walled office.
I tear open the envelope with shaking hands.
The legal documents are dense, filled with whereases and heretofores, but the key words jump out at me like neon signs: Irreconcilable Differences. Adultery. Dissolution of Marriage.
How did they even get up here? Security is supposed to screen everyone.
But of course, a delivery person with celebration balloons — It’s a Girl!
balloons, for God’s sake — security would wave them right through.
They probably thought it was a surprise for an expecting father.
Which is exactly what I thought for those few blissful seconds before everything went to hell.
“This is ridiculous,” I say, but my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. “Absolutely ridiculous.”
“Shall I call your attorney?” Nicolette repeats.
“No, no. That won’t be necessary.” I run a hand through my hair, trying to think, and my fingers come away dusted with glitter. But a cold thread of worry winds through my gut. Why now? What triggered this?
Does she know about the post-nup?
No. Impossible. The draft is on my desk at home, and Snow never goes into my study. She wouldn’t even understand what she was looking at if she did. Numbers and legal language have never been her strong suit.
Still. The timing is suspicious.
It was Beaumont who brought it up first, six months ago at the club.
His friend Whitmore had just been taken to the cleaners by his ex-wife after she found evidence of his affairs.
The prenup had an infidelity clause — just like mine — and Whitmore lost millions.
We’d all laughed nervously over our scotch, the kind of laughter that comes when you realize you’re all vulnerable to the same fate.