Sweetheart, accountants don’t get invited to tables like this — go wait in the

I didn’t sit. I didn’t leave. I just smiled the way I smile right before I close a quarterly audit. “Actually, Vivian, before I go — congratulations. Preston, it’s lovely to finally meet you in person.” Preston’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He squinted, then stood so fast his chair scraped. “Wait. Elena? Elena Marsh? From Whitfield Capital?” The table went quiet in that specific way wealthy tables go quiet when something expensive is about to break. “You two know each other?” Vivian laughed, brittle. Preston cleared his throat. “Vivian, Elena is the forensic accountant my father brought in. She’s the reason we caught the twelve-million-dollar discrepancy last spring. Dad calls her the only person in the building he trusts with a pen.” Vivian’s champagne flute trembled. I opened my portfolio — not for drama, just habit — and slid a slim folder toward Preston. “I wasn’t going to bring this up tonight. But since I’m already standing.” Inside were the prenup red flags his father had asked me to review that morning: three shell companies in Vivian’s name, forty-two thousand in ‘consulting fees’ funneled from Preston’s trust over six months, and a freshly opened account in the Caymans dated two weeks ago. Preston read. His jaw moved like he was chewing glass. “You said the Cayman account was your grandmother’s inheritance.” “Baby, it is —” “Your grandmother is alive, Vivian. I had dinner with her Sunday.” My husband finally exhaled and pulled out my chair himself. “Sit down, love. You’ve been standing long enough.” Vivian lunged for the folder. I closed it gently. “Some people belong at the kids’ table,” I said, soft as a closing journal entry. “I hear the lobby has very nice coats.” Preston signaled the waiter for the check — only hers. The engagement lasted eleven more minutes. My cookies, I’m told, are still a Christmas favorite.