Graham read it aloud for his own amusement. Prescott wanted a forensic audit of my finances. He wanted equitable division of marital assets. He wanted compensation for reputational harm. He wanted to bully first and understand later.
When Graham finished, he leaned back and laughed. “I have represented sovereign-wealth heirs, hedge-fund monsters, and one celebrity with four concurrent spousal disputes,” he said. “And I can say with complete professional confidence that your husband is one of the dumbest men I have ever encountered.”
I handed him the prenup. He read it once, then again more slowly. “This,” he said, tapping the pages, “is a masterpiece. Not for him. For you.”
We had reviewed the agreement together before I signed it five years earlier, just to be certain there were no hidden traps. Graham had told me then, with visible delight, that Randolph’s greed had made him careless. The prenup was too clean, too absolute. It protected Prescott from a poor bride but would also protect a rich one from Prescott.