The media's response to my dramatic exit from the shareholder meeting was immediate and brutal. Every news outlet in the city wanted exclusive interviews with the "disgraced Prescott fiancée", who'd publicly humiliated herself to save her ex-lover's company. Reporters camped outside my old apartment building, offering doormen six-figure bribes for information about my whereabouts. Paparazzi stalked my former colleagues, my college friends, anyone who might have insight into where Blair Davenport had gone to lick her wounds.
They never thought to look at Eleanor Prescott's private estate in the Hamptons.
The Georgian mansion sat on forty acres of perfectly manicured grounds, invisible from any public road and protected by both geography and old money's legendary talent for discretion. It
