Chapter 3 - The Snake in the House
Grant didn't show up at the hospital until the morning of my discharge, five days later.
He strolled into my room wearing a bespoke Italian suit, sipping an iced latte, looking as though he were picking up dry cleaning rather than his wife.
"Well, you look fine," he said, barely glancing at me as I carefully packed my small bag. "See? I told you it wasn't a big deal. You just love the drama, Claire."
I forced my face to remain entirely blank. Over the last five days, Ethan and I had formulated a plan. If I confronted Grant now, he would use his family's massive wealth and legal power to crush me, file for divorce, and leave me with nothing, hiding the evidence of his family's crimes forever. I had to play the docile, naive wife. I had to go back into the lion's den.
"You're right, Grant," I said softly, looking down. "I overreacted. I'm sorry."
He paused, clearly surprised by my lack of a fight, then smirked. "Good. Glad you've gained some perspective. Come on, the driver is waiting downstairs."
When we arrived at our sprawling, six-bedroom estate in Beacon Hill, my stomach plummeted. Sitting on my velvet living room sofa, drinking my expensive imported tea, was Vanessa Cole.
She was stunning, with long blonde extensions, a designer dress, and a smug, predatory smile.
"Claire! Oh, you poor thing!" Vanessa cooed, standing up and walking over with exaggerated sympathy. "Grant told me how awful you've been feeling. Since you're going to be bedridden, he asked me to move into the guest suite for a few weeks to help manage the household and his communications."
Grant put his arm around Vanessa's waist—a bold, disgusting display of disrespect in my own home. "Vanessa is a lifesaver. You need rest, Claire. She'll handle everything."
It took every ounce of self-control I possessed not to slap them both across the face. They were moving his mistress into my home, expecting me to be too weak, too pathetic, and too blind to do anything about it.
"Thank you, Vanessa," I said, forcing a weak, grateful smile. "That is so kind of you."
Over the next three weeks, my home became a psychological battlefield. Grant and Vanessa barely hid their affair. They drank my wine, whispered in the hallways, and ordered the staff around as if Vanessa were the new lady of the house. Grant moved into the master bedroom, confining me to a smaller room down the hall under the guise of "letting me heal in peace."
What they didn't know was that while they were busy playing house, I was working.
Every night, after they had gone to sleep, I crept downstairs. I bypassed the security systems I had secretly rewired. I entered Grant's home office. With a micro-camera provided by Ethan, I photographed every financial ledger, every offshore bank statement, and every private email Grant had carelessly left on his unlocked hard drive.
Grant was arrogant. He believed I was stupid. That arrogance was a goldmine.
I discovered that the Whitmore empire was built entirely on stolen Rowan patents. I discovered that Grant had been embezzling millions from his own company's investors to fund a secret life with Vanessa in the Cayman Islands. He was planning to bankrupt the company, blame his board of directors, and flee the country with Vanessa and my remaining inheritance.
One night, I found a drafted divorce settlement in his desk. It included a forged signature—*my* signature—waiving my rights to alimony and signing over the deed to the Beacon Hill house to Vanessa.
He wasn't just leaving me. He was going to leave me homeless and penniless.
May you like
I smiled in the dark of his office. Not if I burn you to the ground first, Grant.
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