Chapter 2 - The Cracks In The Gold
Grant lunged forward to snatch the folder, but Owen caught his brother’s forearm in a vice grip. Grant’s younger brother had spent years enduring Grant’s condescension, relegated to minor executive tasks while Grant played the untouchable visionary. But tonight, Owen’s knuckles were white, his grip immovable.
"Sit down, Grant," Owen hissed between clenched teeth. "Haven't you made enough of an ass out of yourself for one evening?"
"Get your hands off me, you useless parasite!" Grant snarled, ripping his arm free. But the momentum carried him awkwardly against his chair, sending it screeching against the herringbone hardwood floor.
The dining room had transformed from an elite Greenwich soiree into an execution chamber. Madison was already trembling, her fingers clutching her small leather clutch like a shield. She looked at Grant with wide, frantic eyes, silently begging him to fix the disaster he had provoked. But Grant was unraveling. The alcohol that had fueled his vicious boast about my pregnancy had now turned against him, dulling his reflexes and muddying his thoughts.
"You think you're clever, don't you?" Grant spat at me, leaning both palms on the table, glaring across the empty expanse of china and silver. "You sit there playing the saintly little wife while you hire private eyes to dig through my business! You think Michael is going to walk away from a twelve-percent yield because of a clerical error? Business doesn't work on hurt feelings, Emma. We build things. You just sit home and spend the checks."
"I don't just spend the checks, Grant. I signed the checks," I replied evenly. "Every single payroll distribution for the past three years went across my desk because your signature wasn't authorized on the primary banking mandate without my countersignature. Did you think the bank managers asked for my approval out of courtesy?"
Nathan Cole covered his face with his right hand, groaning softly. "Grant, stop talking. Please. Just shut up."
"Shut up? In my own house?" Grant shouted, his voice cracking with rising hysteria.
"Actually, it's my mother's house," I corrected him, taking another slow sip of water. "Arthur bought it from her estate when she moved into assisted living, and he deeded it entirely to me as part of our antenuptial trust. You don't own the roof over your head, Grant. You don't even own the chair you're leaning on."
Caroline Cole let out an involuntary breath that sounded dangerously close to a laugh. When Grant glared at her, she quickly pressed her linen napkin to her mouth, but her eyes glittered with undeniable satisfaction. Caroline had attended every charity gala where Grant openly flirted with younger hostesses; she had watched me endure his thinly veiled insults at country club dinners for two straight years.
"Madison," I said, turning my gaze back to the woman sitting frozen in her black silk dress. "The lease on the loft in SoHo? The one registered under 'V-Holdings LLC'?"
Madison swallowed hard, her throat bobbing. "I... I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs. Sterling."
"It's Emma. We don't need formalities among family, do we? After all, my husband just informed our dearest friends that you share his bed." I pulled out a crisp, single-page lease agreement bearing a bold red default notice. "V-Holdings was funded through Sterling Logistics’ payroll operational slush. When I rescinded the corporate guarantor clause this morning, the landlord issued an immediate notice to vacate due to fraud in the commercial application. You have forty-eight hours to clear your things before the building management changes the biometric locks."
"Grant!" Madison cried out, her composure completely shattering. The cool, detached mistress vanished, replaced by a terrified twenty-six-year-old realizing the safety net beneath her was made of smoke. "You told me that lease was in an irrevocable trust! You promised me it was mine!"
"It is yours, baby, just calm down," Grant scrambled, reaching for her hand, but Madison snatched it back, recoiling from his touch as if he were contaminated.
"Don't touch me!" she snapped. "Michael Avery is sitting right here! Are the SEC auditors going to knock on my door? Did you use corporate funds to pay my rent?"
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"Nobody is going to any authorities!" Grant bellowed, his face glowing an alarming shade of crimson. "Emma is bluffing! She's eight months pregnant! What is she going to do, spend the rest of her third trimester sitting in a deposition room with federal prosecutors? She doesn't have the stomach for a war!"
"I don't need a war, Grant," I said softly, standing up from my chair. I moved with slow, deliberate grace, supporting the gentle curve of my stomach with one hand while the other gathered my brown leather folder. "I only needed the audit. And now that our guests know exactly who you are, I think it's time for you to leave."
