Chapter 6 - The Deposition of Grant Whitmore
Six weeks later.
The conference room on the 30th floor of Sterling & Associates in Manhattan was flooded with cold winter sunlight.
I sat at the long mahogany table, wearing an elegant emerald velvet maternity dress. At thirty-seven weeks pregnant, I was full and radiant, my hair flowing softly over my shoulders.
Across the table sat Grant Whitmore.
In six weeks, the man had completely disintegrated.
He had lost at least fifteen pounds. His sharp Italian suit hung loosely over his stooped shoulders. His dark hair was streaked with gray at the temples, his skin pale and hollow, his hands trembling slightly as he sat beside his public defense attorney—he could no longer afford private counsel after his assets were frozen.
Sitting next to me was Arthur Sterling and a court reporter whose fingers hovered over her stenography machine.
“This deposition is now on the record,” Arthur announced, adjusting his glasses. “In the matter of Whitmore v. Whitmore, Civil Action 4092.”
Grant looked across the table at me, his eyes filled with a desperate, wild longing mixed with deep, bitter rage.
“Claire...” Grant stammered, his voice raw and gravelly. “Please. Look at me. We don't have to do this in front of lawyers. Just give me five minutes alone with you. For the sake of our baby girl—”
“Mr. Whitmore,” Arthur interrupted sharply. “You will address Mrs. Whitmore through counsel, or I will ask the bailiff to cite you for intimidation.”
Grant swallowed hard, clutching his hands together on the table. “Claire, I made a mistake! I was under insane pressure at work! Natalie was nothing—she was an obsession, a distraction! I love you! I’ve always loved you! We spent three years trying to have this baby!”
I looked directly into his bloodshot eyes. My face remained completely calm, my pulse completely steady.
“Grant,” I said, my voice smooth and quiet. “You didn't make a mistake. A mistake is forgetting to buy milk. You spent eleven months systematically planning to strip my family trust, hide assets in offshore shells, and use my pregnancy as a cover while you entertained another woman in our guest house.”
“I was securing our future!” Grant pleaded, leaning forward over the table.
“No,” I replied cleanly. “You were securing your ego. You couldn't handle the fact that every major deal you ever closed was backed by my father’s name and my family’s money. You wanted to feel like a self-made tycoon, so you stole from the woman who gave you everything.”
Arthur Sterling reached into his folder and placed a thick stack of printed transcripts on the table.
“Exhibit 14,” Arthur read smoothly. “Audio transcript from November 12th, recorded via the guest house smart security system. Mr. Whitmore speaking to Miss Natalie Vale: ‘Claire’s father was a snob who thought I wasn't good enough for his precious daughter. Once I liquidate her trust's real estate portfolio, I’ll show every snob in Greenwich who really runs this town.’”
Grant stared at the transcript as if it were a burning coals. His jaw worked silently, but no sound came out of his throat.
“Exhibit 15,” Arthur continued relentlessly. “Bank records showing a wire transfer of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars from the Whitmore Family Nursery Account to an offshore entity registered under Natalie Vale’s name in the Cayman Islands.”
Grant turned his head toward his public defender, but the young lawyer simply shook his head, staring down at his notepad in silence.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Arthur said, leaning over the table. “The Manhattan District Attorney has offered a plea bargain regarding the criminal indictment. If you sign a full waiver relinquishing all claims to the Greenwich estate, the Hamptons property, and execute a total surrender of parental rights to your unborn child, the State will recommend a reduced sentence of four years in a medium-security federal facility.”
Grant gasped, jumping out of his chair. “Surrender my parental rights?! She’s my daughter! You can’t take my daughter from me!”
I stood up slowly, resting my hands gently over my pregnant belly, looking down at him from my full height.
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“You gave up your right to be her father the moment you brought another woman into her nursery planning, Grant,” I said, every word dripping with absolute, undeniable finality. “You wanted a life without me. Now you have it. You have nothing else left.”
Grant sank back into his chair, covering his face with his trembling, manicured hands, and began to sob uncontrollably into the quiet room.
