Chapter 13 - The Interview Grant Thought Would Save Him
Grant chose television.
Of course he did.
A week before the shareholder vote, he announced an exclusive prime-time interview.
The network promoted it relentlessly.
THE FASHION BILLIONAIRE BREAKS HIS SILENCE.
I did not watch live.
I was at the Vale atelier.
But everyone else did.
Rosa had it playing on her phone while hand-finishing a hem.
Grant sat across from a famous interviewer in a dark studio.
He wore navy.
No tie.
Again.
Someone had clearly decided ties looked guilty.
“I failed my marriage,” he began.
Smart.
Admission without specifics.
“I allowed ambition to change me.”
Better.
“I hurt Vivian.”
True.
“I hurt Celeste.”
Also true.
“I failed employees who trusted me.”
Interesting.
For ten minutes, he appeared remorseful.
Then the interviewer asked about the financial investigation.
Grant sighed.
“This is where things become complicated.”
Rosa looked at me.
“Bad man about to say bad thing.”
She was right.
Grant said:
“Vivian and I structured the company together. Financial decisions were not made in isolation.”
There it was.
Shared blame.
He continued.
“There are records bearing both our authorizations.”
The forged ledger.
The interviewer asked, “Are you saying your wife knew about the transfers?”
“I’m saying facts should be investigated before social media decides guilt.”
Perfectly phrased.
Reasonable.
Dangerous.
Then:
“I worry that Vivian is being encouraged by people who benefit from keeping us divided.”
I laughed.
Alessandra turned off the phone.
“No.”
“I want to hear.”
“No. Your blood pressure.”
“I’m thirty-four.”
“You can still have blood pressure.”
Rosa turned it back on.
Alessandra glared.
Rosa shrugged.
“Drama.”
Grant moved to Halcyon.
Not by name.
He referred to “legacy family assets.”
He suggested I had financial motives for removing him.
Technically true.
Everyone has financial motives in business.
Then the interviewer showed the Fashion Week clip.
No. It’s mine.
Grant watched.
His face softened.
“I loved that woman.”
Past tense.
Rosa muttered something in Spanish.
I did not need translation.
The interviewer asked:
“Do you still?”
Grant paused for exactly the right amount of time.
“Yes.”
I felt nothing.
That surprised me.
Months earlier, those words could have destroyed me.
Now they sounded like dialogue delivered by an actor who had rehearsed too long.
The interview ended.
Online response was mixed.
Exactly what Grant needed.
He did not need everyone to love him.
He needed uncertainty before the shareholder vote.
At midnight, Marcus called.
“We identified House Account Partners.”
“Who?”
“You’re going to hate this.”
“Everyone says that before giving me useful information.”
“The purchasing capital came from the Mercer Family Foundation.”
I frowned.
Grant and I had established the foundation together.
Mostly charitable giving.
Education.
Textile-worker assistance.
“How can the foundation buy voting shares?”
“It can’t.”
“Exactly.”
“Money moved out through an investment subsidiary.”
“Authorized by whom?”
“Trustee.”
“Who?”
Marcus paused.
“Grant’s sister.”
I closed my eyes.
Rebecca Mercer.
We were not close.
But we were family.
Or had been.
“Does Rebecca know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
The next morning, Rebecca called me first.
“Vivian, I screwed up.”
At least she did not waste time.
“What did you sign?”
“Grant said the foundation needed to rebalance.”
“Did you read the documents?”
A terrible silence.
“No.”
I almost laughed.
Everyone signed things for Grant.
Apparently I had not been special.
“He said it was temporary.”
“How much?”
“All available liquid assets.”
My anger became immediate.
“That money funds scholarships.”
“I know.”
“Emergency worker grants.”
“I know.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I trusted my brother.”
I stopped.
There it was.
The disease running through our entire story.
Trust without verification.
“I need every document.”
“I sent them.”
“Do not speak to Grant.”
“He’s my brother.”
“And he used you.”
She started crying.
I softened slightly.
“Rebecca.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry later. Documents now.”
By noon, we confirmed the share purchase could be challenged because charitable assets had been improperly deployed.
But court review would take time.
The shareholder vote was in three days.
Grant potentially had enough support to remove the board.
I needed votes.
Not sympathy.
We spent the next seventy-two hours meeting investors.
No threats.
No emotional speeches.
Numbers.
Strategy.
Evidence.
Mercer Vale had valuable brands but declining creativity.
Grant pursued rapid licensing and acquisitions.
I proposed slower growth.
Design investment.
Supply-chain transparency.
Vale collaboration.
Employee profit participation.
Some investors loved it.
Some hated it.
One said:
“You’re asking us to sacrifice margin.”
“I’m asking you to stop pretending short-term extraction is the same as value.”
“That sounds philosophical.”
“It’s financial.”
“Grant promises twenty percent growth.”
“He also promised you Vale Couture.”
The investor smiled reluctantly.
“Fair.”
Meanwhile, Maya’s concept collection was taking shape.
One prototype used a modern sustainable textile inspired by Halcyon—not the protected formula itself, but the philosophy.
It felt new.
Customers responded to early private previews.
Orders appeared.
Proof.
Not theory.
The night before the vote, I returned home.
My townhouse.
Still legally ours.
Grant was there.
I stopped in the doorway.
“How did you get in?”
“I own half the house.”
Unfortunately true.
He sat in the living room.
No attorneys.
No cameras.
I stayed near the door.
“What do you want?”
“To ask you not to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Destroy the company.”
“I’m trying to save it.”
“So am I.”
“By raiding the foundation?”
His face changed.
“Rebecca told you.”
“Of course.”
“It’s temporary.”
“You used scholarship money to buy votes.”
“The money will be returned.”
“From where?”
He stood.
“After the vote.”
“How convenient.”
“Vivian, listen to me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
That word was rare from him.
I waited.
“If you win tomorrow, Richard talks.”
“He already is.”
“Not about transfers.”
“What then?”
Grant looked genuinely afraid.
“Halcyon.”
“We know about the arbitration.”
“Not that.”
“What?”
He walked closer.
“Your mother didn’t keep only business records.”
I felt cold.
“What did she keep?”
“Names.”
“Whose names?”
“People who used Halcyon’s offshore channels.”
“For what?”
“Money.”
“How much?”
“Hundreds of millions.”
“Whose?”
Grant shook his head.
“I never saw the full list.”
“Richard did?”
“Yes.”
“So this entire time—”
“Richard wasn’t chasing patents.”
Grant’s voice dropped.
“He was chasing the ledger.”
I stared.
My mother’s house account.
Maybe only one layer.
“Where is it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why do you think I do?”
“Because your mother left it to you.”
“She left everything to me.”
“No.”
He shook his head.
“She left instructions.”
“To whom?”
Grant answered:
“Alessandra.”
My stomach dropped.
I had trusted Alessandra more than almost anyone.
Grant looked at me with something close to pity.
May you like
“Ask her what she kept from you.”
And that night, twelve hours before the vote that could decide Mercer Vale’s future, I realized there was still one secret left inside the couture house.
