Everything became worse when he met Natalia Brookswell, an online influencer obsessed with glamour and luxury. During her first dinner at my apartment she scanned every object in the room like a financial auditor.
She smiled and asked casually, “Mrs. Sullivan, this apartment must be worth several million dollars, right?”
I answered coldly, “It is my home, not an investment.”
After that night Preston began suggesting that I should let him manage my finances.
Six months ago I fell seriously ill with pneumonia and spent ten days in the hospital. Preston visited daily with kind words and eventually asked me to sign a document that he claimed was related to medical insurance authorization.
The document was actually a broad legal power of attorney.
He disappeared after my recovery.
Now I understood why.
That same evening I called my attorney Leonard Whitaker.
“Leonard,” I said, “my son thinks he sold my apartment and stole my savings. Prepare criminal charges for fraud and financial abuse. Tomorrow evening we will attend his wedding.”
Leonard remained silent for a moment.
“Margot, this will send him to prison.”
“I know,” I replied calmly. “But perhaps prison is the only place where he can learn honesty.”
The next evening I dressed carefully in a navy silk gown and a pearl necklace that Patrick had given me on our anniversary years earlier. I arrived at the Grand Liberty Country Club with Leonard and two investigators.
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