My husband divorced me to marry my own seventy-year-old mother, convinced she would inherit my billionaire father’s fortune after his funeral. On their wedding day, I walked into the church holding a velvet box. My mother smiled like she had already won. Then I placed the gift in front of them and said, “Congratulations. Dad left everything to his daughter — and that daughter is me.”
The first time my husband kissed my mother, he did it beside my father’s open coffin. By sunset, he had handed me divorce papers and whispered, “You were always the wrong investment.” My husband, Adrian, was forty-three, handsome, polished, and permanently hungry for a life he had never earned. My mother, Celeste, was seventy, elegant…