When I boarded my husband’s private jet, his secretary was sitting beside him in my usual seat, feeding him peeled oranges while his mother told me to be considerate. I didn’t argue.

Jasmine stayed exactly where she was.

Completely comfortable.

Waiting to see whether I would obey.

To everyone on that plane, Aaron Prescott was a brilliant self-made technology billionaire.

And I was his privileged wife.

The woman who smiled beside him in photographs.

Attended charity dinners.

Wore expensive gowns.

And supposedly contributed nothing except looking polished in public.

What they didn’t know was that when Prescott Technologies had been on the edge of collapse, I transferred $1.5 billion from my family trust to keep it alive.

They also didn’t know