Chapter 4 - The Price of a Mistress
Celeste was trembling now, looking frantically between Grant and the documents spread across the marble console. The glamorous, self-assured aura she had walked into my home with had evaporated, leaving behind a terrified, desperate woman who realized she had anchored herself to a sinking ship.
“Grant,” Celeste whispered, grabbing his elbow with manic urgency. “What is she talking about? You told me you were an equity partner! You told me that the consulting contracts were completely legitimate and approved by the board! You swore to me that the money in the offshore account was yours!”
Grant tried to shake off her hand, suddenly viewing her not as a trophy, but as a liability. “Celeste, shut up! Don't say another word! Anything you say right now can be used against us!”
“Against us?” Celeste shrieked, backing away from him as if he were radioactive. “No, no, no! Don't you dare lump me in with you! You approached me! You told me that Bellamy Holdings needed an independent branding agency to bypass internal tax audits! You drew up the contracts! You signed the approvals! I just cashed the checks because you told me it was an advance on our future together!”
“Oh, Miss Monroe, don't play the innocent victim,” Rebecca Shaw intervened, stepping forward and handing Celeste a separate, single sheet of legal paper. “This is a formal subpoena from the state attorney general's financial crimes division. You weren't an unwitting bystander. We have text messages between you and Grant dating back sixteen months detailing precisely how the consulting fees would be laundered through three limited liability corporations before landing in a shared account in the Cayman Islands.”
Celeste’s legs seemed to give out. She leaned heavily against the wall, sliding down slightly until she caught herself on the coat rack. “I didn't... I didn't know it was illegal like that. He said it was standard tax avoidance. He told me everyone in high finance did it.”
“High finance?” Arthur Bell barked out a bitter laugh. “Grant isn't in high finance. Grant is a thief who mistook his wife’s patience for stupidity. Every dime you received from Bellamy Holdings was stolen directly from our pension reserves and employee profit-sharing pool. The board met at midnight last night in an emergency executive session. We have already filed a civil injunction freezing every domestic and foreign account associated with your names.”
“Every account?” Grant gasped, his eyes wild with terror. “Arthur, you can’t freeze my personal accounts! How am I supposed to pay for legal counsel? How am I supposed to pay my mortgage?”
“There is no mortgage, Grant,” I reminded him gently, tilting my head. “And your personal checking account has already been frozen by court order to secure the restitution owed to the firm. By my estimation, after the forensic accountants finish seizing your vehicles, your luxury watches, and your country club shares, you will still owe Bellamy Holdings roughly one point two million dollars.”
Grant looked around the foyer, seeking help from anyone. He looked at his father, but Richard Sterling was staring at the floor, refusing to meet his son’s eyes. He looked at his mother, who had begun quietly weeping into a linen napkin.
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Finally, he looked back at me, his face twisting into a hideous sneer of pure desperation.
“You planned this,” he snarled, pointing a shaking finger at my face. “You knew for months. You let me sleep in your bed, you smiled at me across the dinner table, you kissed me goodbye in the morning, and the entire time you were sharpening the knife!”
