The afternoon breeze drifting across the .s.manicured half-acre lawn in the gated equestrian enclave outside Charlotte, North Carolina, carried the sweet scent of Carolina jasmine, roasted beef tenderloin, and vintage Veuve Clicquot.
Under the grand white silk marquee canopy, fifty of Charlotte’s most prominent real estate developers, private equity brokers, and high-society patrons sat at round tables draped in pastel linen. Cascades of ivory and blush roses tumbled from crystal centerpieces, their petals catching the brilliant autumn sun. At the center of the terrace, framed beneath an elaborate archway of white hydrangeas and silver balloons shaped into a nursery cradle, stood my ex-husband, Preston Holloway.
Preston was thirty-eight, razor-jawed, with manicured silver-streaked dark hair, wearing an un-buttoned slate-gray Italian linen blazer over an open-collared silk shirt. He held a crystal champagne flute high above his head, the amber liquid sparkling beneath the marquee chandeliers, his handsome face glowing with theatrical, vindictive satisfaction.
