THE UNSTABLE WIFE WHOM THE CEO TRIED TO FRAME WAS ACTUALLY THE MAJORITY OWNER

The hammering on the front door grew louder, accompanied by the frantic rattling of the brass handle.

“Evelyn! Open up or I swear I’ll kick this door off its hinges!” Grant’s voice cracked, losing all the smooth, corporate authority he usually projected in boardrooms.

I walked down the dark hallway, my heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Marcus followed a few steps behind, his phone already recording video through his front pocket.

I reached the front door, unlatched the heavy deadbolt with a single, steady click, and pulled the door inward.

Grant stumbled forward into the foyer, catching himself against the mahogany console table with both hands. His tie was crooked, his suit jacket was missing a button where he must have caught it in the restaurant, and his hair was plastered across his forehead from the freezing drizzle outside.

Behind him in the driveway, Sloane’s car sat idling with its hazard lights flashing, though Sloane herself was nowhere to be seen.

“You ruinous, conniving bitch,” Grant panted, staring at me with wild, bloodshot eyes. “Do you have any idea what just happened? The federal tax agents didn't wait until dawn. They hit my downtown office twenty minutes ago.”

“Well,” I said calmly, folding my arms across my chest. “At least they have good punctuality. It’s rare for government agencies to work this efficiently on Valentine’s Day.”

Grant lunged toward me, his hands raised as if to grab my shoulders, but Marcus stepped out from the hallway shadow, his six-foot-two frame blocking Grant’s path like a stone wall.

“Don't touch her, Grant,” Marcus said, his voice cold and flat. “Unless you want felony assault added to the wire fraud and bribery charges currently sitting on the district attorney’s desk.”

Grant stopped dead, his chest heaving as he stared at Marcus, then back at me. The realization of what had just happened seemed to finally break through his panic, leaving behind a hollow, desperate shell of a man.

“Evelyn... please,” Grant whispered, his knees buckling slightly as he leaned against the console table. He reached out, his hand trembling as he tried to touch the sleeve of my dress. “You can’t do this to me. Thirty years. We built this life together. If the feds freeze my accounts, I’m ruined. Everything I worked for—the buildings, the developments, the reputation—it’s all gone.”

“You didn't build it, Grant,” I said, looking down at him with a cold, detached pity. “You managed it. Badly. And while you were busy siphoning public funds to buy diamond pendants for Sloane, you forgot who actually owned the land beneath your feet.”

Grant slid down the mahogany console until he was sitting on the cold marble floor, his head in his hands. A dry, pathetic sob broke from his throat.

“Sloane... Sloane was the one who pushed for the offshore accounts,” he muttered, deflecting blame even now. “She said we needed to secure our future in case things went south. It wasn't my idea.”

“And the ten thousand dollars you offered Simon to frame me as an unstable alcoholic?” I asked. “Was that Sloane’s idea too?”

Grant didn't answer. He just stared at the Persian rug between his shoes, his shoulders shaking with genuine terror.

“Get up, Grant,” I said, turning my back on him and walking back toward the study. “You have a meeting with your defense attorney in the morning. Assuming you can still afford one after the asset seizure is finalized.”

Grant scrambled up from the floor, following me desperately down the hallway like a stray dog. “Where are you going? Where am I supposed to sleep? The police towed my car from the restaurant lot!”

I stopped at the study door and turned around.

“There’s a cot in the carriage house behind the garage,” I said evenly. “It’s dry, it has a heater, and it’s roughly the same size as the jail cell you’ll be occupying by Monday afternoon.”

Before Grant could respond, my cell phone on the desk began to ring with an urgent, chiming alert.