Chapter 2 - The Sunday Morning IllusionSaturday and Sunday passed in a blur of domestic bliss for Grant Mercer. Or so he believed.
From my suite at The Peninsula Chicago, high above Michigan Avenue, I watched the digital security feed of the Winnetka estate on my tablet. Grant spent Saturday morning giving architectural tours of my home to Tessa, letting her redesign the master dressing room into a nursery while dismissing the domestic staff early so they wouldn't cramp their new lifestyle.
On Sunday afternoon, Grant hosted a small, exclusive brunch on the back patio. He invited three junior vice presidents from Whitmore Commercial Management—men he routinely bullied and underpaid—just to flaunt his dominance.
On the live feed, I watched Grant swirl a glass of vintage Pinot Noir, laughing loudly as he addressed his colleagues.
"Some people spend their whole lives clinging to old money," Grant said, his voice captured crisply by the hidden perimeter mic I had activated. "They think a famous last name makes them invincible. But business belongs to the hungry. It belongs to the men who actually pull the levers."
Tessa beamed, rubbing her stomach as if she were carrying the heir to an empire. One of the VPs, a nervous man named Henderson, nodded too quickly. "Absolute power move, Grant. Moving her in and clearing out Claire like that... honestly, Claire was always too rigid for this industry."
"Rigid?" Grant scoffed. "She was a ghost. A decorative ornament that stopped serving its purpose. Without my backing, she’s probably wandering downtown trying to figure out how to work a subway turnstile."
The junior VPs laughed on cue.
I closed the tablet, picked up my phone, and dialed Marcus.
"Is the board ready?" I asked.
"Every single director has reviewed the forensic audit and signed the emergency resolution," Marcus replied. "The freeze on all Whitmore-issued corporate credit lines, personal expense accounts, and subsidiary discretionary funds goes live tonight at precisely 12:01 AM. Furthermore, the petition for immediate asset seizure based on corporate fraud is filed with Judge Abernathy’s emergency desk."
"And the Winnetka estate?"
"The original deed lists you as the sole surviving trustee of the Whitmore Family Trust, with a lifetime revocation clause for any spouse attempting financial malfeasance. The eviction notice for Tessa Lane is attached."
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I looked out at the glittering Chicago skyline, the wind howling against the triple-paned glass of the penthouse.
"Make sure the notice is delivered by hand," I said softly. "I want front-row seats when Monday morning arrives."
