Everyone Asked What I Did to Bring Down My Husband’s Empire the Morning of His Wedding Rehearsal — It Was the Wrong Question; the Right One Was Ask What I Kept

Roman had every advantage the world can give a man — money, charm, lawyers, the benefit of every doubt.

And I had none of them; I had a cot and a number and two years.

But he had made one category of enemy he did not know how to count, and I had been thrown, against my will, into the middle of them.

Because the thing about crushing people on your way up is that you assume they simply vanish, that the supervisor you bribed and the nurse you framed and the accountant you threatened just cease to matter once they’ve served their purpose.

Roman had left a trail of used and discarded people behind him for years, and he thought of exactly none of them as a threat, because in his map of the world the discarded have no power.