Chapter 9 - My Husband’s Counterattack
I did not believe Marcus.
Not because Marcus lied.
He almost never did.
But because the statement itself was impossible.
“My mother died three years ago.”
“I know.”
“When was the payment made?”
“Eighteen months ago.”
“Then she didn’t make it.”
“No.”
“Who had access?”
“That’s what we’re investigating.”
I stood from the conference table.
Nathan was still reading the letter.
“Could Grant access Blackwood accounts?”
“Not normally.”
“Normally?”
“There were legacy structures after your mother died.”
My mother’s estate had been complicated.
Trusts.
Partnership interests.
Operating accounts.
Most had been consolidated.
Apparently not all.
“Find out.”
“We are.”
“No, Marcus. Find out tonight.”
He sighed.
“I knew you were going to say that.”
I ended the call.
Nathan folded the letter.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“All of it.”
“Sorry does not explain why you signed Northglass.”
“I told you.”
“You told me you thought you were helping.”
“I did.”
“And now?”
His eyes looked older.
“Now I think Grant manipulated more people than either of us understood.”
“He didn’t manipulate Richard into stealing.”
“No.”
“Or Elaine.”
“No.”
“Or you.”
Nathan absorbed that.
Good.
I was finished allowing everyone near Grant to reduce their own decisions to his influence.
Grant was responsible for Grant.
Everyone else was responsible for themselves.
The next morning, my attorney released a short statement.
Not emotional.
Not defensive.
Four paragraphs.
It confirmed that the psychiatric document circulating online was fraudulent.
It noted that the physician whose signature appeared on it had died before the report date.
It stated the matter had been referred to appropriate investigators.
Then one final sentence:
Seeking counseling after bereavement is neither shameful nor evidence of incapacity. Fabricating medical records is another matter entirely.
The response changed public conversation instantly.
Reporters began asking where Grant obtained the document.
He deleted his video.
Too late.
Screenshots existed.
By noon, he issued another statement.
He claimed he had “never personally reviewed” the psychiatric file.
Of course.
At one, Celeste contacted us.
Grant had called her from a new number.
“What did he want?” I asked.
“For me to say you threatened me.”
I stared.
“Did I?”
“No.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because he said if I didn’t, he’d release photos.”
“What photos?”
Her face tightened.
“Private ones.”
I understood.
“Do you have proof of the threat?”
“I recorded the second half.”
Denise, her attorney, answered.
“We have preserved it.”
I felt a flash of anger so clean it almost calmed me.
Grant was cornered.
Cornered people reveal themselves.
“What did you tell him?”
Celeste looked directly at me.
“I told him to go to hell.”
Despite myself, I smiled.
“Good.”
She almost smiled back.
That did not make us friends.
But something had changed.
At two, Mercer Vale’s largest department-store partner suspended new orders pending financial review.
At three, two vendors demanded early payment.
At four, employees began receiving anonymous messages claiming layoffs were imminent.
Grant’s counterattack had shifted.
If he could not remove me, he could destabilize the company.
I gathered department heads at six.
No press.
No board.
Just employees.
“I am not going to tell you everything is fine,” I said.
The room became silent.
“Everything is not fine.”
I saw fear.
Good.
Truth first.
“We are under financial review. Some vendor relationships are strained. Several transactions are being investigated.”
Someone raised a hand.
“Are there layoffs?”
“No layoffs are planned this week.”
“This week?”
“I won’t promise months I cannot see.”
People shifted.
I continued.
“But I will promise this: no executive bonus will be paid while jobs are at risk. Senior leadership compensation is frozen. Mine included.”
That got attention.
“We are opening the books to an independent restructuring team. We will publish verified internal updates every Friday.”
Another employee asked, “Is Grant coming back?”
Silence again.
“I don’t know.”
That was true.
His suspension was temporary.
Investigations take time.
Facts matter.
Not anger.
Afterward, a junior designer approached me.
Her name was Maya Brooks.
Twenty-six.
She looked nervous.
“Can I show you something?”
“Of course.”
She handed me a folder.
Inside were sketches.
Beautiful.
Modern.
Architectural.
“Grant killed these.”
I looked up.
“When?”
“Last year.”
“Why?”
“He said customers don’t buy clothes from unknown names.”
“What did he want instead?”
“Celebrity collaboration.”
I looked at the sketches again.
“Why show me?”
“Because everyone keeps saying the company needs money.”
“It does.”
“What if the problem isn’t that nobody wants our clothes?”
“What is it?”
“We stopped making clothes people want.”
That sentence changed the next year of my life.
But I didn’t know it yet.
I asked Maya to join the product review meeting Monday.
Her mouth fell open.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“Grant never allowed junior designers.”
“I’m not Grant.”
That evening, Marcus called.
“We traced the Blackwood account.”
I braced myself.
“It was a dormant special-purpose entity.”
“Who could access it?”
“Two authorized managers.”
“Names.”
“One was your mother.”
“And the other?”
Silence.
“Marcus.”
“Your husband.”
I sat down.
“How?”
“Six years ago, Margaret granted Grant limited authorization.”
“For what?”
“Emergency financing tied to Mercer Vale.”
My mother trusted him.
At least enough then.
“Did he use it to pay for the fake report?”
“The authorization trail leads to a transfer requested through credentials associated with him.”
“Associated?”
“We still need confirmation he personally initiated it.”
“Fine.”
My patience was thinning.
“Where did the money go?”
“A private investigation firm.”
“Name?”
“Langford Strategic.”
“What else did they do?”
“We subpoenaed available billing records.”
“Marcus.”
He paused.
“They investigated you.”
My skin turned cold.
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
“For what?”
“Your travel. Financial activity. Private communications.”
I felt violated in a way I had not felt even discovering the affair.
My own husband had hired investigators.
“How much?”
“Over four hundred thousand dollars.”
“For information about me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then he added:
“But there’s one more billing category.”
“What?”
“Asset recovery.”
I frowned.
“What asset?”
“We don’t know.”
That night, I returned to our townhouse for the first time since Fashion Week.
Grant was not there.
His clothes remained.
His shoes.
His books.
The framed magazine article saying I had married well.
I took it off the wall.
Behind it was a small safe I had forgotten existed.
Grant used it for passports.
I knew the code.
Our anniversary.
The safe opened.
Passports.
Cash.
A watch.
Then a thin envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
My mother.
Grant.
Richard Hale.
Taken six years earlier.
Before Richard officially joined Mercer Vale.
On the back, someone had written:
Blackwood archive transfer — completed.
I stared at the words.
Asset recovery.
Archive transfer.
My mother.
Grant.
Richard.
This was no longer only about money.
They had been looking for something.
May you like
Something my mother once possessed.
And whatever it was, Grant had spent six years trying to find it.
