Chapter 2
2.
It was past midnight by the time I returned to our post-marriage apartment on the Upper West Side.
I sat on the couch, staring at the wedding portrait on the wall.
Grant had his arms around me, his smile gentle and entirely focused on me.
The photographer had said the way the groom looked at the bride was straight out of a movie.
I stood up, walked into the bedroom, and started tearing through every drawer and cabinet.
I needed our marriage certificate.
I wanted a divorce.
I didn't find the documents, but I did find a dark blue velvet box tucked away.
I stared at it for a long time before reaching out and opening it.
Inside was a stack of photos.
All of Savannah.
She was seventeen or eighteen in the first few, wearing a white dress, looking back over her shoulder in the sunlight, her eyes shining.
On the back, in Grant's sharp handwriting:
—Savannah, fifteen. Boarding school move-in day.
The next photo was taken after her twenty-second birthday.
She was on her tiptoes, kissing Grant's cheek.
Grant was looking at the camera. The sheer indulgence in his eyes was something I had never received from him.
Photo after photo.
From a teenager to a grown woman.
At the very bottom lay an old envelope.
Inside were tuition receipts for Savannah's boarding school, the lease for her first apartment, and a photo from her twenty-second birthday.
On the back of every single item, Grant had written dates and notes.
It wasn't until after she turned twenty-two that those notes shifted from the logistics of a benefactor and his ward into records of an intimacy that never should have existed between them.
I suddenly remembered that night three years ago.
Grant had brought me to meet Savannah, introducing her as the girl he had sponsored and taken care of for years.
From the time she was fifteen, her boarding school, housing, and living expenses had all been arranged by Grant.
He kept insisting he was just a mentor and benefactor, but the level of control he had over her life never felt like ordinary charity.
Savannah had been perfectly polite to me.
"Mrs. Mercer, it's so nice to meet you."
But the way she looked at Grant was sticky, unsettling.
A few days later, I received a FaceTime call from Savannah.
When I answered, the screen showed a bed.
Grant was lying on it, his eyes closed, his face flushed.
Savannah's voice came through the speaker.
"Claire, watch closely."
Then she crawled onto the bed and started unbuttoning Grant's shirt.
I drove over like a madwoman.
By the time I pounded on the door and forced my way in, it was over.
Savannah was wrapped in a sheet, red marks blooming on her shoulders. She tilted her head, watching me storm into the room.
Her smile was sweet and utterly ruthless.
"You're a little late, Claire."
"Grant was amazing."
When Grant woke up and saw me, saw the mess on the floor, all the color drained from his face.
He gave a frantic, incoherent explanation.
He said Savannah had drugged him.
He said he didn't know what was happening.
I broke up with him on the spot. I didn't leave him a single inch of room to negotiate.
He blocked the door, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling as he begged me not to leave.
I walked around him.
A second later, he sprinted out of the apartment building and stepped directly into oncoming traffic.
After the screech of tires, he was lying on the asphalt yards away, a pool of blood slowly spreading beneath him.
Three broken ribs.
That wasn't a sacrifice for love.
It was him using his own body to force me to stay.
But I didn't understand that back then.
In the hospital, he gripped my hand, his voice so weak it sounded like he might fade away at any second.
"Claire, don't go."
"I can't do this without you."
He swore he would cut off all support to Savannah.
He would make her leave.
He would never see her again.
My heart softened. I forgave him.
My stomach suddenly lurched.
I rushed into the bathroom and collapsed over the toilet, but nothing came up.
Stomach acid burned my throat as tears streamed down my face.
Sick. It was so sickening.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Grant's number.
"Hello?"
The voice that answered carried a faint, breathy pant.
Savannah.
In the background, Grant's voice sounded husky and impatient. "Who is it?"
Savannah let out a soft laugh.
"I don't know. Probably spam."
"Stop... Grant, slow down..."
The call disconnected.
I stood there, gripping my phone.
My body started shaking uncontrollably. Tears fell without warning.
I slid down the wall until I hit the floor, leaning against the cold bathroom tiles, wrapping my arms around myself.
But I couldn't feel a trace of warmth.