“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 startssinging. 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 goddamnIt’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 willhear 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 arestill 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.
