Chapter 2 - The Illusion of Wealth
For ten years, I had played the part of the quiet, supportive wife. When Graham’s father died and left the Ralstons with nothing but debt and a heavy dose of generational pride, Graham had refused to accept reality. He wanted the prestige of the Dallas elite. He wanted the Highland Park address.
So, I let him have his fantasy.
I had established a private family trust, naming myself as the sole trustee, and allowed Graham to believe he was securing "high-yield consulting contracts" from anonymous commercial developers. In reality, those developers were subsidiaries of Vance Properties—my company. I was funding his entire life, paying his country club dues, and buying his suits, all while he treated me like a charity case he had saved from a middle-class grave.
I walked back out onto the terrace. The air was warm, smelling of woodsmoke and expensive perfume.
The moment I stepped onto the stone patio, Gloria looked up. Her eyes narrowed as she saw I was alone.
"Where are the girls, Jocelyn?" she asked, her voice carrying over the music. "I hope you didn't send them to pout in their rooms. Children need to learn resilience. If they can't handle a little family tradition, they’ll never survive in our world."
"They aren't pouting, Gloria," I said, walking to the end of the long table. I stood right behind Graham’s chair.
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Graham didn't look up immediately. He was busy cutting into a piece of brisket. "Jocelyn, sit down and eat. Stop making everything about you. My mother made a point, and she’s right. When we have a son, he’ll inherit the Ralston legacy. Until then, the girls need to learn their place."
"The Ralston legacy," I repeated, the words tasting like ash. "And what legacy is that, Graham? The two million dollars in debt your father left behind? Or the three outstanding loans on your 'consulting' firm that you haven't made a payment on in four months?"
