I was having dinner at an upscale restaurant with my daughter and her husband. After they left, the waiter stepped closer, his voice barely above a breath as he whispered, “Ma’am… please don’t drink what they ordered for you.” My entire body went cold.
Helen Crawford, sixty-five, had lived in New York City long enough to know that people changed when money entered the room. But she still believed—perhaps too optimistically—that her only daughter, Rachel, would never treat her like a bank. So when Helen sold her boutique hotel chain for forty-seven million dollars, she invited Rachel and her…