Chapter 3 - Champagne in Stolen Silk
The Connecticut estate was warm, glowing with the amber ambiance of recessed architectural lighting and roaring stone fireplaces. In the great room, the fire crackled, casting dancing shadows over the double-height vaulted ceiling.
Sloane Mercer poured herself another glass of Dom Pérignon, letting the silk hem of Claire’s ivory robe drag across the imported travertine floors.
“You look like you're still waiting for a bomb to go off, darling,” Sloane purred, walking toward the grand floor-to-ceiling windows where Grant stood with his arms crossed, staring out into the rain-slicked driveway.
Grant didn't turn around. The image of the unmarked Maybach Pullman was burned into his retinas. The black paint, the heavy chassis that spoke of multi-million-dollar armoring, and above all, Martin Keene holding that umbrella.
“That lawyer,” Grant muttered, his jaw working compulsively. “Martin Keene. Why would a man like that show up at my gate to pick up a former Westchester schoolteacher?”
Sloane laughed, a high, melodic sound that grated on Grant’s nerves for the first time in six months.
“Oh, please, Grant. Use your brain,” Sloane said, wrapping her arms around his waist from behind. “Claire spent the last week in the hospital calling every legal aid directory and ambulance chaser in the state. She probably reached a junior associate at Keene’s firm through some old alumni network from her father’s days. Keene probably sent a driver and an umbrella to look magnanimous. You think a partner of Keene, Vance & Sterling actually cares about a woman whose net worth consists of a ten-year-old Volvo and an expired teaching credential?”
Grant turned, looking at Sloane. She was undeniably gorgeous—blonde, razor-thin, wearing the fierce, predatory makeup of Manhattan's elite social climbers. Her father was Julian Mercer, a mid-tier venture capitalist and public relations mogul who had promised Grant introductions to sovereign wealth funds in the Middle East.
Getting rid of Claire had not just been an affair; in Grant’s eyes, it had been an executive upgrade. Claire was too quiet, too grounded. She never cared for yachting in St. Barts or hobnobbing with foreign dignitaries in Davos. Sloane, on the other hand, was an accessory built for public power.
“She didn't sign the cross-collateralization waiver, Sloane,” Grant said, his voice tense. “Apex’s deadline is Friday. If I don't deliver that spousal consent, the credit committee at Apex might reject the rollover.”
Sloane waved her diamond-adorned hand dismissively. “Julian spoke to the managing directors at Lehman-Cross and Bellerophon Capital this morning over breakfast. They’re salivating to step in if Apex balks. Nobody lets a nine-billion-dollar enterprise fail over a spousal signature from a disgruntled ex-wife. She’s bluffing, Grant. She’s sitting in some dingy motel room right now with a screaming baby, waiting for you to call. By tomorrow afternoon, she’ll be begging to take the three million.”
Grant felt a knot in his chest loosen. Sloane was right. Claire was timid. For six years, she had never raised her voice. When he was late, she left a plate in the warming drawer. When he lost his temper after bad earnings reports, she rubbed his shoulders and brought him herbal tea. She had no spine, no killer instinct.
“Did the housekeepers clear out her dressing room?” Grant asked, feeling his usual arrogance returning.
“Every trace,” Sloane smiled triumphantly, turning to admire herself in the mirror above the fireplace. “Her dowdy tweed coats, her flat shoes, her grandmother’s silver tea set—all packed into storage boxes and sent to a basement depot. Tomorrow, my decorators are arriving from Milan to remodel the nursery into my walk-in shoe salon.”
“Good,” Grant said, stepping forward and pulling Sloane against him. He kissed her neck, trying to drown out the inexplicable dread that still lingered in his gut. “Tomorrow night is the pre-gala dinner with the board. I want you by my side. Let the press know that the future of Halloway Dynamics has arrived.”
“Oh, they already know,” Sloane whispered into his ear. “I posted a photo of the Connecticut courtyard an hour ago. The caption reads: *New beginnings in our sanctuary.* It already has forty thousand likes.”
May you like
Upstairs, in the abandoned, silent nursery where Claire had spent months hand-painting delicate woodland creatures on the walls, the cold rain lashed against the dark glass. The hand-carved bassinet, ordered from an artisan in Vermont and meant to hold Emma on her first night home, sat empty under the dust sheets.
***
