Chapter 3 - The Price of AmbitionBy noon, Grant was no longer a partner at Sterling & Vance.
Arthur Vance, moving with ruthless self-preservation, had convened an emergency executive session while I waited in my father’s old corner office. They didn't just strip Grant of his partnership; they voted unanimously to demand his immediate resignation, effective immediately, to avoid a referral to federal prosecutors.
When Grant finally walked into the office where I sat reviewing the asset-freeze injunctions, he looked like a broken man. The immaculate posture and effortless charm that had once defined him were entirely gone.
“You planned this,” he whispered, leaning against the doorframe as if his legs could barely support his weight. “From the beginning. The audit… you started it the night I went to Chicago, didn’t you?”
“I started it the moment I realized my husband was stupid enough to use joint marital assets to fund his mistress’s lifestyle while simultaneously plotting to make me look unstable in public,” I replied without looking up from my tablet. “You thought I was passive, Grant. You married a quiet woman because you wanted a decorative ornament who wouldn’t ask questions when you traveled for ‘business.’ But you forgot where the money came from.”
“Sloane put me up to that,” he blurted out, a pathetic flash of self-preservation sparking in his eyes. “She told me… she said if we pushed you hard enough, you’d cause a scene, and then I could file for an expedited divorce on grounds of erratic behavior and secure a larger share of the pre-nup before the trust vested—'
“And you agreed,” I finished for him, finally setting the tablet down and standing up. I walked slowly around the desk until I stood just inches away from him. “You agreed to humiliate me publicly, destroy my dignity, and cast me aside like broken glass, all so you and your cheap little mistress could live off my family’s fortune.”
“Caroline, please,” he choked out, reaching blindly for my wrist. “We have twelve years. Twelve years of history—'
I stepped back, avoiding his touch as if he carried a contagious disease.
“Twelve years of acting classes, as it turns out,” I said coldly. “Pack your office by five o’clock, Grant. If you’re still in this building after hours, security won't just escort you out—they’ll hand these federal wire-fraud files directly to the FBI.”
I walked past him, leaving the office and the wreckage of our marriage behind. But as I rode the private elevator down to the lobby, my phone buzzed in my designer handbag.
May you like
It was an unknown number, accompanied by a single photograph.
It was a picture of my personal car parked outside my apartment building, with a note tucked under the windshield wiper written in harsh, jagged handwriting: You think you won? This isn’t over.
