I opened the top drawer of my desk and removed a secure phone.
There was only one person I needed to call.
Gideon Shaw, chief legal counsel of Wrenford Capital.
He answered immediately.
“Ms.
Wrenford.”
Very few people called me that.
To most of Charleston, I was Elowen Prescott, Weston’s quiet wife.
But I had been born Elowen Wrenford.
My grandmother, Lenora Wrenford, had built a private investment company from a small regional property firm into an organization with interests in medical facilities, sustainable construction, hospitality, infrastructure, and private equity.
When she passed away, controlling authority eventually came to me.
I had kept my position private by choice.
At first, it had been about security.
Later, after meeting Weston, it became something more personal.
I wanted to know whether someone could love Elowen without caring about the Wrenford name.
For a while, I believed Weston did.
I had been wrong.
“Gideon,” I said, “move Prescott Urban Partners to the main table tonight.”
He paused.
“The main table?”
“Yes.
Tell Weston the chairwoman requested it personally.”
Another silence.
Gideon had never trusted my husband.
“And the audit?”
I looked at the folders arranged across my desk.
“Bring everything.”
“Everything?”
“Everything.”
I ended the call and opened another door.
My private dressing room was beyond it.
An emerald evening gown hung beneath the lighTS.
Beside it rested my grandmother’s necklace.
I touched the green stone at its center.
Grandmother had once told me something I had never forgotten.
“Never tell people you’re powerful just to make them respect you.
Watch how they treat you when they believe you aren’t.”
