Chapter 7 - The Unraveling
Grant didn't stay for the rest of the gala.
After forty-five minutes of standing in the shadow of my triumph—watching senior partners ignore him to discuss million-dollar portfolio strategies with me—he pulled Chloe out of the ballroom, his face dark with humiliating rage.
I remained at the Drake until 11:00 PM, networking seamlessly, finalizing my executive onboarding details with Arthur, and establishing connections with three major legal teams.
When my luxury town car pulled into our suburban driveway at midnight, every light in the house was blazing.
I walked through the front door, slipping off my high heels, holding them casually in one hand.
Grant was pacing furiously in the living room, his bow tie undone, his tuxedo jacket thrown haphazardly over the couch. A half-empty bottle of bourbon sat on the coffee table.
"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT?!" Grant roared the moment I stepped into the foyer.
I didn't flinch. I walked past him toward the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of cold water. "Lower your voice, Grant. Ivy is sleeping."
"DON'T GIVE ME THAT 'LOWER YOUR VOICE' CRAP!" he screamed, his face flushed red, veins bulging on his neck. "You humiliated me! You ambushed me in front of my peers! In front of Arthur Pendelton!"
"I didn't humiliate you, Grant," I said calmly, taking a slow sip of water. "You humiliated yourself by assuming that because I was staying home to raise our infant daughter, my mind had ceased to exist."
"You lied to me!" he spat, stepping toward the island, slamming his fist onto the marble. "You told me you didn't have an income! You let me pay for everything! You let me stress about money!"
I let out a soft, melodious laugh—a sound that drove him into absolute madness.
"Grant," I said softly, setting my glass down. "My down payment bought this house. My brokerage account holds three times your annual salary. And my new VP position pays $310,000 a year—plus bonuses. I never lied to you. You simply stopped asking intelligent questions because your fragile ego preferred to believe I was helpless."
"You're my wife!" he yelled. "You're supposed to support me!"
"Support you?" I raised an eyebrow, my tone sharpening into a razor blade. "Like you supported me when you looked at three clean baby bottles and asked where I would go without your salary? Like you supported me by taking Chloe Bennett to Alinea and the Lincoln Park boutique hotel on our joint credit card?"
Grant froze.
The color drained from his face once more, replaced by a look of pure, sickening dread. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
"Y-You... how do you..." he stammered, his hands beginning to shake.
I pulled a sleek manila folder from my designer handbag and slid it across the marble island. It landed with a soft, decisive thud directly in front of him.
"Page one is the private investigator's photo report from last Thursday," I said flatly. "Page two is the itemized list of marital funds you dissipated on your mistress. Page three is the formal complaint Victoria Vance will file with your firm’s ethics board if you attempt to fight me."
Grant’s shaking fingers opened the folder. He stared at the crystal-clear photographs of himself kissing Chloe at the restaurant, his breathing turning shallow and frantic.
"E-Emily... please," he choked out, his arrogance evaporating like mist in the sun, replaced by pathetic, weeping desperate panic. "It... it didn't mean anything! I was stressed! I was confused! Please, Em... we can fix this! We can go to counseling!"
"And on page four," I continued smoothly, entirely ignoring his pathetic pleas, "is the petition for dissolution of marriage, full legal custody of Ivy, and exclusive possession of this house."
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Grant looked up at me, tears streaming down his face. "Emily... you can't take my house! You can't take my daughter!"
"It was never your house, Grant," I whispered, leaning over the island, looking him dead in his weeping eyes. "And as for Ivy... she deserves a father who respects her mother. You failed the risk assessment."
