Chapter 7 - THE DIVORCE PAPERS BESIDE HIS CHAMPAGNE
By Sunday evening, the Palm Beach mansion had become a command center.
Bellamy attorneys occupied the library.
Forensic accountants worked from the downstairs office.
Security monitored communications.
Holloway Meridian’s board had suspended Martin Keene pending investigation, although nobody knew where he was.
Grant remained in the mansion because Seraphina’s lawyers advised that having him accessible was temporarily useful.
Neither husband nor wife slept in their shared bedroom.
Seraphina stayed on the third floor.
Grant stayed in a guest suite.
The physical separation felt strangely normal.
Perhaps because emotionally they had been living apart for years.
At seven Sunday evening, Grant entered the library.
Seraphina was reviewing corporate ownership files.
“Can we talk?”
She continued reading.
“We are talking.”
“About us.”
“There is no us to discuss tonight.”
“There has to be.”
She looked up.
“Why?”
Grant closed the door.
He seemed smaller without a suit.
Simple dark pants.
White shirt.
No tie.
No watch.
For once there were no visible symbols of success.
“I made a terrible mistake.”
“Several.”
“Yes.”
Seraphina waited.
“I ended things with Delaney.”
“That changes nothing.”
“I know.”
“Then why mention it?”
“Because I need you to know.”
“Grant, you did not choose me.”
His face tightened.
“You were forced to choose after she gave evidence to my attorneys.”
He looked away.
Seraphina continued.
“If I were still the woman you thought had nothing, would you be standing here?”
He opened his mouth.
No answer came.
“That silence is the reason our marriage is over.”
Grant looked sharply at her.
“Don’t.”
“I met with a divorce attorney this morning.”
His face drained.
“Sera.”
“Do not.”
“Seven years.”
“Yes.”
“You’re throwing away seven years.”
She stared at him.
“No.”
Her voice remained calm.
“I spent seven years trying not to throw them away.”
The sentence landed heavily.
She opened a drawer.
A cream envelope lay inside.
Grant recognized his full legal name.
GRANT ALEXANDER HOLLOWAY.
He did not touch it.
“What is that?”
“You know.”
“No.”
“Divorce petition.”
He stood absolutely still.
Seraphina slid it across the desk.
Grant stared at the envelope as though it contained a death certificate.
“You already filed?”
“Not yet.”
He looked up.
“Why?”
“Because my attorney advised waiting until Monday morning.”
Hope flashed across his face.
Seraphina noticed.
“It is not an invitation to negotiate.”
Hope disappeared.
Grant sat opposite her.
“Was any of it real?”
The question surprised her.
“What?”
“Our marriage.”
Seraphina almost became angry.
Then she saw his expression.
He genuinely did not know.
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“My love was.”
“Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
“I told you.”
“My father died. Then your company began collapsing. If I told you I controlled Bellamy immediately before Bellamy rescued you, I would never know whether you stayed because you loved me or because you needed the money.”
“So you tested me.”
“No.”
She thought carefully.
“I postponed telling you.”
“For seven years.”
“Yes.”
“That was wrong.”
Seraphina nodded.
“Yes.”
Grant looked surprised again.
“You admit that?”
“Of course.”
“Then maybe—”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
“Two wrongs do not erase each other.”
Grant leaned back.
“You should have trusted me.”
“I should have.”
“And I should have been someone worthy of that trust.”
Seraphina looked at him.
That was perhaps the first genuinely honest sentence he had spoken about their marriage.
“Yes.”
He lowered his head.
For several moments neither spoke.
Then Grant whispered:
“I loved you.”
“Past tense?”
He looked up quickly.
“No.”
Seraphina felt pain, but not temptation.
Love could survive after trust died.
That did not mean the marriage could.
Before either spoke again, Julian entered.
“We found the seventeen percent.”
Seraphina stood immediately.
Grant remained seated.
“What is it?”
Julian placed several documents on the desk.
“When Alexander Bellamy reorganized the company twenty-two years ago, he created a family trust.”
“I know.”
“You inherited controlling voting rights.”
“Yes.”
“But there is a separate nonvoting economic interest.”
“How much?”
“Seventeen percent.”
“Beneficiary?”
Julian looked uncomfortable.
“Initially your mother.”
Seraphina froze.
Her mother, Helena Bellamy, had died when Seraphina was sixteen.
“That makes no sense.”
“After her death, the interest passed according to a side letter.”
“To me?”
“No.”
Seraphina’s heart began pounding.
“To whom?”
Julian placed the document in front of her.
The beneficiary’s name had been redacted in most copies.
But this one contained it.
EVELYN ROSE BELLAMY.
Seraphina stared.
“I don’t know anyone named Evelyn Bellamy.”
Julian sat down.
“Neither did I.”
Grant stood.
“Could she be family?”
Seraphina shook her head.
“My father was an only child.”
Julian looked at her carefully.
“Apparently not.”
Silence.
“What?”
“We found a sealed birth record.”
Seraphina felt the room become suddenly distant.
“Alexander Bellamy had another daughter.”
She stared at him.
“No.”
“Born three years before you.”
“No.”
“We have documentary evidence.”
Seraphina sat slowly.
Her father.
The man she trusted above everyone.
Another daughter.
A secret shareholder.
A sister she had never known existed.
“Where is she?”
Julian hesitated.
“That is where things become complicated.”
“Where?”
“The beneficiary name changed nineteen years ago.”
“To whom?”
Julian turned the page.
Seraphina read it.
Her blood went cold.
MARTIN ELLIOT KEENE, TRUSTEE.
Grant swore under his breath.
Seraphina looked at Julian.
“Martin is connected to my sister?”
“We believe so.”
“Is Evelyn alive?”
“We don’t know.”
Seraphina stared at the documents.
Suddenly Martin’s behavior made sense.
His interest in her identity.
His confidence that Bellamy Holdings could be controlled.
His knowledge of the company’s internal structures.
This was no longer merely corporate theft.
This was family.
Grant moved beside her.
For a moment, instinct took over.
He reached for her hand.
Seraphina pulled away.
He stopped.
Pain crossed his face.
Then her phone rang.
Unknown number.
Julian looked at security.
They traced it.
“Answer,” he said.
Seraphina did.
A man’s voice spoke.
“Ms. Bellamy?”
“Yes.”
“You do not know me.”
“Who are you?”
“My name is Daniel Price.”
Julian began writing.
The man continued.
“I was Martin Keene’s driver for eleven years.”
Seraphina stood.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why are you calling?”
The man breathed nervously.
“Because Mr. Keene told me if anything ever happened, I should contact Alexander Bellamy’s younger daughter.”
Seraphina’s heart stopped.
“You mean me?”
“No.”
The next words changed everything.
“I mean Evelyn.”
Seraphina gripped the phone.
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
The man hesitated.
Then said:
“She has been living in Florida for almost twenty years.”
Seraphina closed her eyes.
“Tell me her name.”
There was a pause.
“She doesn’t use Bellamy.”
“What does she use?”
Another pause.
Then:
“Mavis Holloway.”
Grant dropped the champagne glass he had been holding.
It shattered across the floor.
May you like
Exactly as the porcelain dish had shattered two nights earlier.
Only now, nobody asked Seraphina to clean it.
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