Chapter 3 - The Cold Dinner Confrontation
Grant looked down at the manila folder as if it were a venomous snake that had crawled out of the sink. His arrogant smirk faltered for half a second before his jaw clenched in pure anger. He ripped the folder open, scanning the official county seal, the legal description of the property, and the signatures on the deed.
"What kind of cheap stunt is this?" he snarled, slamming the papers onto the counter. "You think you can forge a document and kick me out of my own estate? I paid the mortgage on this place every single month from the corporate account!"
"You didn't pay a mortgage, Grant," I countered, standing my ground without yielding an inch. "There is no mortgage. The trust bought the property outright nine years ago to protect my capital. The corporate account was paying a nominal maintenance fee to lease the guest quarters for your home office. You don't own this kitchen. You don't own the driveway you parked your sports car on. You don't even own the bed you slept in last night."
Judith rose from the barstool, her face mottled with indignant red blotches. "How dare you speak to my son like this, you ungrateful little witch! Grant took you in when you were a sickly, broken girl! He built an empire while you sat upstairs playing house with a child who can’t even hold her tongue! Nathan would roll over in his grave if he saw how you treat his boy Owen!"
Melissa immediately stepped forward, pulling Owen behind her as if I were wielding a kitchen knife. "Claire, you need serious professional help. Owen was traumatized by your screaming this morning at the resort! He’s just an innocent boy whose father sacrificed everything for this country! Grant promised Nathan on his deathbed that he would provide for us!"
"Then Grant should provide for you with his own money," I said, turning my gaze directly onto Melissa. "Not with my grandfather's inheritance. And Nathan didn't die in battle, Melissa. Nathan died in a luxury sports car driving eighty miles an hour down a mountain pass after a weekend in Vegas with a woman who wasn't his wife. Stop dressing up your family's history in stolen valor."
Melissa gasped, her hand flying to her mouth, tears springing to her eyes.
"That’s enough!" Grant bellowed, taking an aggressive step toward me, his fist clenched tight, the exact same posture he had taken before slapping Lily’s hand that morning. "You will not disrespect my family under my roof! I built Apex Logistics from nothing! I employ three hundred drivers! I have municipal contracts across three states! I will take this house, I will take the business, and I will take Lily just to show you what happens when you cross me!"
"Try it," I whispered, not flinching. "Step closer to me, Grant. Let the hidden security cameras in this kitchen catch you raising a hand against me the same day you struck an eight-year-old girl in a public restaurant. The police are already on standby down the block. Evelyn Cross called the county sheriff twenty minutes ago to notify them of an impending domestic disturbance."
Grant stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes flicked to the small black lens mounted near the crown molding—a security camera he had insisted on installing years ago to keep tabs on the cleaning staff. The color slowly drained from his cheeks.
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"You're bluffing," he sneered, though his voice lacked its previous bravado. "You think some high-priced divorce lawyer can touch Apex Logistics? I’m the founder! I’m the face of that company! Without me, those contracts dry up in twenty-four hours! You’ll be begging me on your knees to come back when the utility bills arrive!"
"You have until midnight, Grant," I said, turning my back on him and walking toward the stairs. "Take your mother and your golden heir. Because tomorrow morning, you will discover that the face of a company means nothing when the backbone decides to walk away."
