Chapter 2 - The Call That Shook Wall Street
The cold Greenwich rain lashed against my face as I carried Emma out to my vintage sedan—the one Grant constantly begged me to sell because it “ruined his image” when prospective investors visited.
He didn’t know it was bulletproof, custom-ordered, and registered directly under a Whitmore family holding company.
I settled Emma into her booster seat, checked her mouth with a clean tissue, and whispered, “We’re going to see Grandpa, sweetheart. Hold my hand.”
Emma sniffled, her little fingers locking around my thumb. “Is Daddy coming?”
“No, baby,” I said, looking through the rain-streaked window toward the mansion’s brightly lit windows where Grant and Savannah were probably already plotting their grand exit for the Metropolitan Investors Gala. “Daddy has other priorities tonight.”
I pulled out of the circular drive, tires throwing up gravel against the manicured hedges Marjorie loved so much.
Instead of heading toward the local hospital, I drove straight into the city. By the time we crossed the Triborough Bridge, my phone began to vibrate violently in the cup holder.
It was Grant. Then Marjorie. Then Grant again.
I ignored every call until the fourth one, when I finally tapped the speakerphone button as we merged onto the FDR Drive.
“Clara!” Grant’s voice shrieked through the car speakers, tight with frantic, humiliated panic. “Have you completely lost your mind? The gala starts in two hours! The caterers are here, Savannah is crying in the guest suite because of her dress, and Mother is sitting in the parlor putting ice on her jaw! Where the hell are you?”
I kept my eyes on the wet asphalt, my voice chillingly level. “I’m taking our daughter to see a doctor about her three missing teeth, Grant.”
“Forget the teeth!” he barked, his privilege bleeding through every syllable. “You hit my mother! You humiliated Savannah! You need to turn this car around right now, walk through that front door, and get on your knees and apologize to both of them, or so help me god, I will never let you step foot in this house again!”
I almost laughed.
“You won’t have to worry about the house, Grant,” I said softly.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means pack your bags,” I replied. “Because by the time you finish walking the red carpet tonight, there won't be a single asset, account, or business credit line in your name left to your name.”
“Are you delusional?” he laughed—a short, nervous, arrogant sound. “You’re a dependent housewife! You don’t have a penny to your name without my sign-off! You’re nothing without me, Clara!”
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“You’re right,” I murmured. “I’m nothing without you.”
Then I hung up, powered off the phone, and tossed it into the glove compartment.
