Chapter 4 - The Fiancée Who Started Counting
Claire dropped to her knees.
“No, baby.”
Noah looked at the letter.
“But it says—”
“You’re going to be okay.”
“You promised you don’t lie.”
Claire flinched.
Grant felt the words strike him too.
She gathered Noah into her arms.
“I should have told you more. I was scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of making you scared.”
Noah cried quietly against her shoulder.
Grant looked away.
He could buy companies.
Hotels.
Aircraft.
Entire blocks of Manhattan real estate.
Yet a seven-year-old boy had spent months wondering why his mother counted money after midnight.
And Grant had accepted that money while pretending his own legs were useless.
When Claire finally took Noah upstairs, Grant called Marcus.
“Come over.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Marcus arrived twenty minutes later.
Grant locked the study door.
Then he stood.
Marcus stared at him.
“I’m done.”
“With the chair?”
“With all of it.”
“Good.”
“I’m telling Claire tonight.”
“Better.”
“And Vanessa tomorrow.”
Marcus exhaled.
“Grant, before you do that, we opened Rebecca’s drive.”
Grant stopped.
“What did you find?”
“Transfers from the Whitmore Foundation.”
“To whom?”
“Shell organizations.”
“Controlled by?”
“We’re still tracing them.”
“How much?”
“At least eleven million.”
Grant stared at him.
Marcus continued.
“Some transfers were authorized using your mother’s credentials.”
Grant’s expression hardened.
“That doesn’t mean she made them.”
“I know.”
“Who else had access?”
“Foundation officers.”
Vanessa was one.
But only recently.
The theft began years earlier.
“Rebecca discovered this?”
“Part of it.”
“Why disappear?”
“We found an audio file.”
Marcus opened his phone.
Rebecca’s voice filled the study.
“If Marcus hears this, tell him I’m sorry. I thought I could expose them. I was wrong. They know about Claire. They know about the baby. I have to leave before somebody gets hurt.”
Grant looked at Marcus.
“The baby?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
“Was she talking about Noah?”
“I don’t know.”
The recording continued.
“There’s one person at Whitmore I trusted. I shouldn’t have. If they find the original ledger, everything is over.”
The audio stopped.
“Who?”
“She never says.”
Grant walked to the window.
Walking felt strange now.
Not physically.
Morally.
He had treated mobility like a costume.
Downstairs, a door slammed.
Grant immediately sat again.
Marcus stared at him.
“You said you were done.”
“I am.”
“Then why did you sit?”
Grant hated the answer.
“Habit.”
“No. Cowardice.”
Grant looked at him.
Marcus did not retreat.
“You’re terrified Claire will hate you.”
“Yes.”
“She might.”
Grant nodded.
“She should.”
At dinner, Vanessa arrived unexpectedly.
She brought an attorney.
Grant knew him.
Richard Vale.
A corporate restructuring specialist.
Vanessa kissed Grant’s cheek.
“I thought we could discuss practical matters.”
“Romantic.”
“Don’t start.”
Richard opened a folder.
“With your condition, Grant, it may be prudent to create a temporary voting proxy.”
“For whom?”
Vanessa glanced at Eleanor.
His mother had entered behind them.
“For us,” Eleanor said.
Grant looked from his mother to his fiancée.
“You coordinated this.”
“We’re protecting the company,” Eleanor replied.
“From me?”
“From uncertainty.”
Grant almost stood.
He wanted to watch their faces.
But something stopped him.
Not fear this time.
Curiosity.
“How much am I worth to you sitting down?” he asked.
Vanessa stiffened.
“Don’t be dramatic.”
Grant smiled without humor.
“You want my vote. Mother wants the company. Richard wants fees. Has anyone asked what I want?”
Eleanor said, “You want Whitmore protected.”
“Do I?”
His mother stared at him.
Grant looked at Vanessa.
“And you?”
“I want our future protected.”
“Our wedding is postponed indefinitely.”
“That doesn’t mean I don’t care.”
Grant leaned forward.
“If the doctors said tomorrow that I would never walk again, would you marry me?”
Silence.
Vanessa’s lips parted.
No answer came.
Grant nodded.
“Thank you.”
He wheeled himself away.
Claire had heard everything from the corridor.
Their eyes met.
She said nothing.
Later, Grant found her folding linens.
“I owe you an explanation.”
“Yes.”
He hesitated.
Claire waited.
Then Vanessa’s voice came from behind him.
“Grant.”
He closed his eyes.
“Not now.”
“It’s important.”
“So is this.”
Vanessa looked at Claire.
“I need to speak to my fiancé privately.”
Claire placed the linen down.
“Of course.”
Grant caught her hand.
“No.”
Both women looked at him.
“Stay.”
Vanessa’s face sharpened.
“Excuse me?”
“I said stay.”
Grant released Claire’s hand.
Vanessa looked between them.
Then she laughed.
“Oh.”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“What?”
“Now I understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand.”
“Your housekeeper.”
“Careful.”
Vanessa smiled.
“You’re defending her?”
“Yes.”
“Over me?”
“When you behave like this, yes.”
Vanessa’s face changed.
“You think she cares about you?”
“She gave me money she couldn’t afford to lose.”
“That should make you suspicious, not sentimental.”
“She gave me her son’s surgery money.”
For the first time, Vanessa looked genuinely startled.
Then something calculating returned.
“How much?”
Grant stared at her.
Claire did too.
Vanessa realized too late what she had asked.
Grant whispered, “There it is.”
“What?”
“The first question in your head was how much.”
Vanessa turned red.
She left.
Claire watched her go.
Then she looked at Grant.
“You said you owed me an explanation.”
“I do.”
Grant put both hands on the wheelchair arms.
His heart pounded.
This was it.
He pushed downward.
His body began to rise.
Before his knees straightened, the lights went out.
Claire gasped.
A second later, glass shattered downstairs.
Grant froze halfway out of the chair.
Then Noah screamed from the upper floor.
“Mom!”
Claire ran.
Grant forgot the wheelchair.
He stood fully upright.
He took one step.
Then another.
May you like
And behind him, someone whispered in disbelief:
“Grant?”
