My name is Ivy Weatherby. Publicly—at least for the past three years—I’ve gone by Ivy Calloway. I am thirty-four years old. I am the chairman of the board of Vantage Logistics Group, though almost no one in my personal life knows that. My husband’s name is Weston. I want to tell you what happened the night a driver broke my leg. I want to tell you what followed.
Weston and I met at a charity ball five years ago. He was handsome, ambitious, and quick with a compliment. At the time, I was still building Vantage Logistics Group under a holding-company structure that kept my name out of the press—a decision my late father had encouraged me to make, believing that anonymity would protect me from people who only wanted access to money. Weston never asked too many questions about my work. He assumed, based on the modest apartment I kept and the plain way I dressed outside the office, that I held some unremarkable administrative job. I let him think that. I told myself it didn’t matter, that love wasn’t built on résumés or titles. I was wrong about that, ultimately, though it took me years to understand just how wrong.
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