Chapter 7 - My Shares, Not His
By Sunday evening, Grant was no longer pretending everything was normal.
Neither was I.
We were simply pretending different things.
He believed I was hurt by our argument over the trust documents.
I wanted him to believe that.
He did not know about Lena.
He did not know about the flash drive.
He did not know Rachel had identified nearly forty-eight million dollars in questionable transfers.
Most importantly, he did not know that I knew.
That ignorance was now my greatest asset.
I returned home at six.
Grant was pouring whiskey.
“Where were you?”
“Walking.”
“For four hours?”
“I needed space.”
His jaw tightened.
“From me?”
“From everyone.”
I took off my coat.
He watched me carefully.
“You've been different.”
“I'm seven months pregnant.”
He almost smiled.
For months, pregnancy had been the explanation he used for everything.
My exhaustion.
My caution.
My questions.
Now I handed that explanation back to him.
“I've been overwhelmed.”
His shoulders relaxed slightly.
“I know.”
“I shouldn't have embarrassed you today.”
There.
The sentence he wanted.
Grant crossed the room.
“You didn't embarrass me.”
Lie.
“I made everything difficult.”
“You were scared.”
Another word chosen for me.
Scared.
Not suspicious.
Not intelligent.
Not informed.
Scared.
I lowered my eyes.
“I want to understand the documents.”
“I'll explain them.”
“Tomorrow?”
He hesitated.
“Tomorrow.”
“Just us.”
His expression changed.
Hope.
He thought he had regained control.
“Of course.”
He kissed my forehead.
I let him.
Then he held me.
I stood inside the arms of the man who had stolen from me and wondered how many times betrayal could happen before a person stopped feeling surprised.
Grant whispered, “Everything I'm doing is for us.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then tomorrow you can show me.”
He slept beside me that night.
I didn't.
At 2:07 a.m., I received a message from Rachel.
The forged signature is not isolated.
My heart sank.
How many?
Her answer came.
At least six.
I stared into the darkness.
Six times.
Six documents carrying my name.
Six moments when someone had decided my consent was unnecessary.
Another message.
And Emma, one predates your pregnancy.
That mattered.
Grant couldn't blame this on preparing for the baby.
The plan had started earlier.
How far back?
Fourteen months.
I turned toward my sleeping husband.
Fourteen months ago, we had celebrated our seventh anniversary in Paris.
Grant had taken me dancing beside the Seine.
He had given me a handwritten letter telling me I was the best decision of his life.
Apparently, somewhere around that same time, he had begun signing my name.
I wanted to wake him.
I wanted to hold the phone inches from his face.
Instead, I remembered my father.
Let them talk.
Monday morning, Grant prepared breakfast.
He was charming.
Patient.
Almost tender.
The blue folder sat between us.
“Ask anything.”
I opened to the trust amendment.
“Why do you need voting authority?”
“Efficiency.”
“That's not an answer.”
“If something happens during delivery—”
“Something?”
“Emma.”
“No. Say it.”
He sighed.
“If you're temporarily unable to manage business decisions, someone needs authority.”
“Why you?”
“I'm your husband.”
“So?”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Who else would it be?”
“Rachel.”
He laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because he wanted me to feel foolish.
“Your attorney?”
“She represents my interests.”
“So do I.”
“No. You're my husband.”
He stared.
I continued.
“Those aren't automatically the same thing.”
The room changed.
Grant closed the folder.
“What's this really about?”
I looked at him.
“You tell me.”
“Someone has been talking to you.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because these aren't your questions.”
That hurt more than I expected.
Not because he was right.
Because after eight years, he truly believed I wasn't capable of asking them.
I leaned back.
“What questions are mine, Grant?”
He realized too late.
“That's not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He stood.
“We're not doing this.”
I remained seated.
“Doing what?”
“Turning our marriage into an interrogation.”
Our marriage.
He still dared to use that word.
His phone rang.
He looked down.
Lena.
He declined it.
I pretended not to notice.
She called again.
This time he walked into the study.
Exactly as planned.
Lena had been instructed to sound frightened.
To tell him she believed I might know something.
To make Grant talk.
My phone was already connected to hers through a secure call Rachel had arranged.
I couldn't hear everything.
Only fragments.
Grant's voice.
“…keep your mouth shut…”
Lena:
“She owns the theater.”
Silence.
Then Grant said, “What?”
I almost smiled.
Lena repeated it.
“The Crestview. Emma bought it Friday.”
Another long silence.
Then something crashed.
Grant's voice became low.
“When did you find out?”
“Yesterday.”
“Who told you?”
“The manager.”
“Did Emma see you?”
Lena followed the script.
“I don't know.”
Grant swore.
Then he said the words Rachel and I needed.
“If she knows about Northstar, we have a much bigger problem.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
His own voice.
Knowledge.
Connection.
Fear.
Lena asked, “What happens now?”
Grant answered.
“We move before she does.”
The line disconnected.
A second later, Grant emerged from the study.
I was still sitting at the table.
He looked at me differently.
For the first time, he wasn't looking at the trusting wife he could manipulate.
He was looking at a possible threat.
“Emma.”
“Yes?”
“Did you buy the Crestview Theater?”
I looked directly at him.
Then I smiled.
“Yes.”
May you like
His face lost all color.
And the game between us finally changed.
