My evening began with the sharp sound of an expensive porcelain serving platter shattering across the kitchen floor of my Palm Beach mansion. I stood quietly beside the marble island while my mother in law Evelyn Ashford criticized my ability to serve a respectable dinner even after seven years of
marriage. Across the room my husband Preston Ashford barely looked up from his mobile phone as he adjusted his custom tuxedo and limited edition watch. I had spent years protecting Preston from truths his ego could never survive while tolerating his
family calling me his quiet little wife. He instructed me to clean up the mess so I would not scratch the floor and coldly informed me that I was not allowed to attend the Atlantic Legacy Gala with him. Instead he watched his director of corporate relations Vanessa Sinclair walk through our front door wearing a burgundy evening gown. Preston boldly claimed that he had given me my entire luxury lifestyle before escorting his mistress to a waiting limousine. I watched them leave through the iron gates and finally accepted that my patience was a prison I had built for myself.
