“You think you’ve won some kind of game, Arden,” he said, stepping closer.

His breath smelled of the expensive scotch he had been drinking at the country club earlier.

“You forget about the prenuptial agreement,” he said, his voice regaining a thin veneer of his usual arrogance.

“I didn’t forget,” I said.

“We signed it in my attorney’s office on Turtle Creek,” he said, pointing a finger at me. “It clearly states that all joint investment accounts are split fifty-fifty in the event of a divorce.”

He took another step, trying to use his height to crowd me against the counter.

“You can play your little parlor tricks with Maren,” he hissed. “But the law is the law.”

I didn’t move.

I looked at the gold cufflink on his left wrist, the one I had bought him for our fifth anniversary.

“You should have read the addendum, Graham,” I said.

“There was no addendum,” he snapped.

“My father’s lawyers drafted it three days before the wedding,” I said. “You signed it because you were too eager to access my family’s trust to read the fine print.”