Chapter 6 - The Fall from Grace
I turned toward the heavy mahogany door, but before I could turn the handle, Madison lunged out of her seat.
"Claire, please!" she cried, rushing forward, her hands outstretched in desperation. "Please don't let them arrest me! I didn't know about the trust funds! Grant told me everything was legally his! He told me he was moving his assets to protect them from your lawyers! I was just doing what he told me!"
I stopped and looked back at her. Her three-thousand-dollar fuchsia silk dress was ruined with wine and water stains. Her mascara was smeared down her cheeks, and her bare earlobes were red from ripping out the stolen diamond earrings.
"You sat behind that frosted glass and told him that after tonight, I wouldn't be a problem anymore," I said, my voice cutting through her frantic rambling like ice water. "What did you mean by that, Madison?"
Madison froze, her jaw slacking.
"You knew I was six months pregnant," I continued, taking one slow, deliberate step toward her. "You knew how high-risk this pregnancy has been. You and Grant planned to blinds me with an aggressive, hostile divorce filing at this very table, served by private couriers, hoping the shock would send me into early labor and force me into medical seclusion while you two moved the offshore funds out of jurisdiction."
Grant looked away, unable to look me in the eye.
Madison stepped back, trembling. "I... I didn't mean..."
"You underestimated me," I said plainly. "You thought that because I chose grace, I didn't know how to wield power. You thought that because I loved Grant, I was blind. But a woman carrying life doesn't have the luxury of weakness. I protected my child. And tonight, I protected my legacy."
I turned to Uncle Harold. "Uncle Harold, please make sure Mr. Vance provides the police with the full surveillance records from the penthouse parking garage."
"Already taken care of, Claire," Harold said, placing a warm, protective hand on my shoulder. "Take the car home, sweetheart. You've had a long night. We'll handle the garbage."
I nodded, offering Harold a soft, genuine smile—the first real smile I had felt in seventeen days.
As I opened the door of the private dining room, two uniformed Chicago police officers stepped into view, their badges gleaming under the restaurant's ambient chandelier light.
May you like
"Grant Holloway? Madison Reed?" the lead officer asked, stepping into the doorway.
Behind me, Madison let out a wailing cry, and Grant buried his face in his hands on the linen table. I didn't look back. I stepped past the partition, past the curious glances of diners in the main hall, and walked into the cool autumn evening.
