Chapter 3 - The Beggar at the Door
When I arrived at our penthouse overlooking the bay that evening, Grant was already waiting. The apartment was dark except for the amber glow of the terrace lanterns. A half-empty crystal tumbler of Macallan sat on the marble kitchen island.
He rose instantly when the elevator doors chimed, rushing toward me with uncharacteristic sloppiness. His designer tie was undone, his hair disheveled.
“Claire. Thank God you’re home.”
I calmly hung my coat in the foyer closet. “You look distressed, Grant. Did Lark & Finch run out of cashmere booties?”
His jaw tightened, a spasm of shame crossing his features before he put on his best pleading expression—the one that had charmed investors and disarmed rivals for a decade.
“It’s not what you think. Savannah—she’s unstable, Claire. She sprang that date on me. She doesn't know about our finances or our private matters.”
“She knows enough to wear a four-carat ring bought with our joint account,” I said evenly, walking past him into the kitchen to pour a glass of water. “And she knows she’s carrying your child.”
Grant grabbed my wrist, his grip trembling. “It was a mistake. A reckless, stupid mistake. But we can handle this quietly. We have fourteen years together. We built an empire. Don’t throw that away over pride.”
“Pride?” I looked down at his hand until he felt compelled to let go. “You aren't worried about fourteen years, Grant. You’re worried about forty-eight hours.”
His breath caught. “Claire, if you file before the eighteenth, the board will invoke the morality clause. It will destroy the company. It will destroy everything your father built.”
“No,” I replied, looking directly into his desperate, bloodshot eyes. “It won’t destroy my father’s empire. It will only destroy you.”
May you like
He stepped back, suddenly realizing that the quiet, gentle woman he had married was nowhere to be found. In her place stood Arthur Vance’s daughter.
---
