Three seconds after kissing his mistress before fourteen directors, my husband ordered me to surrender thirty-two percent of the business I’d quietly built for him.
When I declined, he summoned security.
I am Leah Rowan, thirty-four. Until that Thursday, my husband considered me an obedient homemaker with a minor stake in his billion-dollar empire.
He would soon learn how costly that misconception was.
“Get out of my chair,” I said.
Silence seized Rowan Works’ executive boardroom.
My husband, Grant Rowan, stood by the massive walnut chair heading the conference table. His hand claimed the shoulder of Sloane Avery, his twenty-eight-year-old executive assistant.
