Chapter 5 - The ApartmentI went to dinner.
Not because Grant deserved a conversation.
Because I needed him to talk.
He chose our old restaurant in Tribeca, the Italian place where he proposed eleven years earlier.
That was deliberate.
So was the table.
Same corner.
Same wine.
Same flowers.
Grant had always understood staging.
“You look beautiful,” he said when I arrived.
I sat across from him.
“You look tired.”
He smiled faintly.
“Fair.”
For several minutes, he performed nostalgia.
Remember our first apartment?
Remember when the ceiling leaked?
Remember celebrating our first investment with cheap champagne?
He talked about struggle as though we had struggled equally.
I listened.
Then said, “Are you sleeping with Sabrina?”
His wineglass stopped halfway to his mouth.
There it was.
He set it down.
“No.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
I placed my phone on the table and opened the elevator photograph.
Grant stared at it.
His face barely changed.
“That’s misleading.”
“Your tongue appears very committed to the misunderstanding.”
He looked around quickly.
“Lower your voice.”
“No.”
“Claire.”
“Who took it?”
“I don’t know.”
“So it’s real?”
He exhaled.
“It happened once.”
A classic.
“Of course.”
“I was drinking.”
“Another classic.”
“You and I had been fighting.”
“And there it is.”
“I’m not blaming you.”
“You just did.”
He leaned forward.
“It was a mistake.”
“Three weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“What about Dallas?”
His expression changed.
Thomas had been right.
I smiled without humor.
“That too?”
Grant looked down.
“It started in Dallas.”
Five months.
Not one kiss.
An affair.
“Are you in love with her?”
“No.”
The speed of his answer told me nothing.
“Does she think you are?”
“Claire—”
“Does Sabrina believe you’re leaving me?”
His silence answered.
I sat back.
For years, I had imagined that discovering an affair would feel like being stabbed.
It didn’t.
It felt like reading the final page of a book whose ending I had already guessed.
Sad.
Disappointing.
But mostly inevitable.
“What apartment?” I asked.
Grant frowned.
“What?”
“In San Francisco.”
His eyes flickered.
Tiny.
But enough.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Try again.”
“Who is feeding you this?”
“Did you buy Sabrina an apartment?”
“No.”
“Did you rent one?”
“No.”
“Does Whitmore Dynamics own one?”
His jaw tightened.
I smiled.
“There it is.”
“It’s a corporate residence.”
“For whom?”
“Executives.”
“Which executives?”
“Anyone traveling.”
“Does Sabrina have a key?”
“This is ridiculous.”
“Does she?”
“Yes.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Does anyone else?”
Silence.
I nodded.
“How much?”
“What?”
“The apartment.”
“Claire, stop interrogating me.”
“How much did it cost?”
“About six.”
“Six thousand a month?”
His silence turned my stomach.
“Six million dollars?”
“It’s an appreciating asset.”
“With whose money?”
“The company’s.”
I stared at him.
Thomas hadn’t mentioned a San Francisco property.
Meaning it had likely been hidden through one of the entities.
“Project Meridian?”
Grant’s expression froze.
Finally.
There it was.
“What do you know about Meridian?”
“Enough to know you’re scared.”
“I’m not scared.”
“You should be.”
His face darkened.
“This is exactly what I mean. You surround yourself with lawyers, accountants, your father’s old friends, and suddenly you think you understand my company.”
“I understand fraud.”
“There is no fraud.”
“Then show me the books.”
“You’re not entitled to confidential merger material.”
“I’m a shareholder.”
“You’re my wife.”
“That used to mean more.”
Grant sat back.
The waiter approached.
Grant waved him away.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Grant changed tactics.
“Fine.”
His voice softened.
“I hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“I crossed a line with Sabrina.”
“Several.”
“I’m willing to end it.”
“How generous.”
“I’ll fire her.”
“No.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“Don’t fire her.”
“Why?”
“Because I want investigators to be able to find her.”
His face drained.
“Investigators?”
“The forged guarantee has been referred for forensic review.”
“Claire.”
“And the transfers are being audited.”
“You’re going to destroy the company.”
“No.”
I leaned closer.
“If your company can be destroyed by people examining its financial records, you destroyed it.”
Grant’s fist tightened beneath the table.
“You have no idea what’s at stake.”
“Then tell me.”
He looked at me.
For one second, I saw fear again.
Real fear.
Then he whispered:
“The merger has to close.”
“Why?”
“Because it does.”
“Why?”
He rubbed his jaw.
“Whitmore has short-term obligations.”
“How much?”
“It’s manageable.”
“How much?”
“About twenty.”
“Twenty million?”
He looked away.
I felt cold.
Thomas knew about thirty-one million in questionable borrowing.
Now Grant was telling me another twenty million might be due.
“When?”
“Within sixty days.”
“And you don’t have it.”
“The merger solves it.”
“If it closes.”
“It will.”
I thought of Malcolm.
Grant had no idea the buyer was considering walking away.
“What happens if it doesn’t?”
Grant stared at the candle between us.
Then said:
“We lose control.”
“Of the company?”
“Potentially.”
“And?”
“Creditors could accelerate.”
“And?”
He said nothing.
I understood.
“You pledged more than company assets.”
His eyes lifted.
“Claire—”
“What did you pledge?”
“Nothing that matters if the merger closes.”
I almost stood.
“What did you pledge?”
Before he could answer, his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Sabrina.
Grant rejected it.
It rang again.
Again.
On the fourth call, he answered.
“What?”
I watched his face.
He stood.
“When?”
Silence.
“Who called them?”
His eyes moved toward me.
“What do they have?”
More silence.
“Don’t say anything. I’m coming.”
He ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
Grant grabbed his jacket.
“Did you call regulators?”
“No.”
“Police?”
“No.”
“Federal investigators?”
“No.”
His expression changed at the last one.
Interesting.
“Then who did?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Grant stared at me.
“Someone showed up at Sabrina’s apartment.”
“Who?”
He hesitated.
May you like
Then said the two letters that transformed a corporate scandal into something much more dangerous.
“FBI.”
Related Stories
