Chapter 6 - The Rehearsal Dinner
My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but my hands remained perfectly still on the handle of Grant’s leather briefcase. The desk lamp cast long, dramatic shadows across Grant’s suspicious face as he stepped into the office.
"What are you doing with my bag?" Grant asked, his voice low, the charming facade momentarily slipping to reveal the cold enforcer beneath.
"Looking for a pen," I lied smoothly, offering a sheepish, apologetic smile. I stepped away from the briefcase, leaving it on the desk. "Caleb couldn't sleep. We came down to get some warm milk, and I remembered I hadn't signed the vendor checks for the caterer. I didn't want to wake you."
Grant stared at me for a long, agonizing second. He looked at Caleb, who played his part flawlessly, rubbing his eyes and yawning, leaning heavily against my side. Grant’s posture relaxed. The arrogance that fueled him was his greatest blind spot; he simply could not fathom that I was capable of outsmarting him.
"You work too hard, Mara," Grant murmured, crossing the room to wrap an arm around my waist. He kissed my temple. "Come back to bed. The checks can wait until tomorrow."
"You're right," I said, letting him guide me out of the room. I didn't look back at the briefcase. The trap was set.
The following evening, the rehearsal dinner was held in the private dining room of a historic downtown restaurant. The room glowed with candlelight, reflecting off crystal wine glasses and polished silverware. It looked like the beginning of a beautiful forever, but to me, it felt like sitting in a beautifully decorated courtroom waiting for a verdict.
Colleen sat at the head of the table, holding court. She wore a suffocating amount of diamonds and loudly critiqued the sommelier’s wine selection to anyone who would listen. Maisie and June sat quietly at the far end of the table, unusually subdued, casting nervous glances at Grant. Caleb sat rigidly beside me, his jaw clenched tight.
I excused myself between the salad and the main course, slipping out into the quiet, carpeted corridor leading to the restrooms. I ducked into the dimly lit coat check room, where David Sterling was waiting in the shadows.
"Did he sign it?" David whispered urgently.
I reached into my clutch and pulled out my phone, showing him a photograph I had taken that morning. It was a picture of the final page of the forged property agreement. Grant’s bold, arrogant signature was scrawled across the bottom, directly next to mine. Above our names was the official embossed seal of Reverend Miller, who had notarized it under the guise of pre-marital counseling.
David let out a sharp exhale of relief. "It's done. The moment this document is filed, Holloway Holdings surrenders all assets to the girls' trust. He legally bankrupted himself today, Mara."
"When do we file it?" I asked.
"I have a courier standing by," David said. "I will file it electronically with the county clerk at exactly 4:00 PM tomorrow. Right as you are walking down the aisle. By the time he says 'I do,' he won't have a dime to his name."
I nodded, feeling a cold wave of adrenaline wash over me. I returned to the dining room just as the waiters were clearing the dinner plates. It was time for the toasts.
Grant stood up, tapping a silver spoon against his champagne flute. The room quieted. He smiled warmly at the guests, looking every bit the devoted, handsome fiancé.
"I want to thank you all for being here," Grant began, his voice rich with practiced emotion. "When I met Mara, I was a man entirely focused on building structures. I renovated hotels, built walls, laid foundations. But Mara... Mara taught me how to build a home."
A few of Grant's college friends 'awwed.' I forced a serene, adoring smile, though I wanted to vomit.
"And to show my commitment to leading this family," Grant continued, reaching into his tailored suit jacket, "I want to present Mara with something special tonight."
He pulled out a small, worn leather box and popped it open. Inside, resting on faded velvet, was my grandfather’s antique brass drafting compass.
I gasped, a genuine shock of horror piercing through me. I kept that compass locked in a glass display case in my studio. It was my most prized possession, the tool my grandfather had used to design our stone house. Grant had broken into my studio display to steal it, just to use it as a prop in his sick charade.
"A compass," Grant said softly, holding it up for the room to see. "To always guide us home. To the house where we will build our future together."
He walked over and handed it to me. The brass was cold. I knew, with absolute certainty, that he had already gotten an appraisal on it. He intended to sell it on Monday to pay off a fraction of his mother's debt.
I stood up, holding the compass tightly in my fist. I looked around the room—at David sitting in the back, at Caleb watching me with wide, brave eyes, at Colleen smirking into her wine glass. Then, I looked directly into Grant’s eyes.
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"Thank you, Grant," I said, raising my champagne glass. "This compass means the world to me. And you are absolutely right. Tomorrow, we are going to secure the foundation of our house once and for all. And I promise you... you will get exactly what you deserve."
We clinked our glasses together. The crystal chimed like a warning bell. Grant smiled, entirely oblivious to the fact that I had just promised his execution.
