Chapter 4
I violently wrenched my hands free, raised my arm, and slapped him across the face as hard as I could. Then I lost control, hammering my fists against his chest.
"You cheat on me, you protect the brat who killed my baby, and you want me to shut up?! You bastard!"
Grant's expression remained completely detached. He let me hit him, looking at me as if I were the one being utterly unreasonable.
I stumbled back two steps, my voice trembling, but I held my ground.
"Mason killed our child. And you want me to drop it."
I pointed a shaking finger at the door, forcing him to look at me.
"I'm going to make him pay."
Grant looked at me like I had just told a joke.
"Claire, Mason is eight years old. Even if you press this, it won't change a thing."
"Be a good girl. I promise I'll send him away. I won't let him near you again."
I bit down on my lip so hard I tasted copper.
"Then I won't let either of you live in peace."
"I'll expose everything about you and Vanessa. I'll make sure everyone knows exactly what you did."
"Claire!"
It was the first time Grant had ever exploded at me like that.
He glared at me, his voice dropping to a lethal chill.
"I don't care what you do to me. But Vanessa has been through enough. I will not let you hurt her."
Seeing him panic over her actually gave me a sick thrill of satisfaction.
"Fine."
"Let's see who breaks first."
Grant forced me to stay in the hospital to recover, having soup and meals delivered on a strict schedule.
The moment I was well enough to be discharged, I took every piece of evidence I could find straight to a lawyer.
Weeks later, Grant's affair and his web of lies were splashed across the media.
The evidence was blasted to the press, his industry contacts, and social media platforms.
The immaculate image Grant had painstakingly built shattered overnight.
Partners pulled out to avoid the fallout. His business hemorrhaged clients.
Vanessa and Mason were dragged into the crossfire of the scandal.
Grant stormed into the house, blindingly furious.
He tied me up. He drugged me.
He pinned me down, his hands wrapping around my throat as he forced himself on me.
His eyes were bloodshot.
"You lost a child?"
"I'll just give you another."
That night, I ran out of tears. I couldn't fight him off.
But that wasn't enough for him.
He hired crisis PR teams, ruthless lawyers, and reputation management firms to suppress the news and bury the story.
Then, Grant filed for an Emergency Protective Order (EPO), claiming I was threatening him and Vanessa.
He handed the police doctored messages and wildly exaggerated accusations.
I was arrested for alleged stalking and making criminal threats.
At the arraignment, based on the prosecution's risk assessment, the judge slapped me with a strict no-contact order and an exorbitant bail I couldn't possibly afford.
While awaiting trial, I was locked up in the Fulton County Jail, completely cut off from the outside world for nearly three months.
He painted me as a dangerous lunatic.
"You took it too far, Claire."
"I just needed you to understand that in the face of real power, nothing you do matters."
During those three months in a cell, I finally gave up. I decided to divorce him.
But fate wasn't done torturing me.
Nearly three months later, the prosecution couldn't sustain the charges. The court dropped the protective order and released me.
Walking out of that courthouse, I discovered I was pregnant again.
Grant picked me up under the guise of arranging my housing and medical follow-ups. Instead, he drove me straight to his house in the Atlanta suburbs, confiscated my phone and ID, and forbade me from leaving alone.
I demanded a divorce. He refused.
"Since you're pregnant again, we're staying together. What is there left to fight about?"
I was trapped in that house. Even breathing felt like a chore.
The prolonged depression and severe trauma were too much. I couldn't keep the third baby either.
The doctor told me I had suffered severe fertility complications, making it highly unlikely for me to ever conceive again.
The agony radiated from my chest down to my bones.
But right then, I overheard Grant on the phone with a friend in the hallway.
He didn't sound sad. He sounded relieved.
"It's for the best. Vanessa was terrified that if I had my own kid, I'd neglect Mason. She's been a wreck lately."
He fed me fake sympathy to my face, then took Vanessa and her son out to dinner to celebrate.
I pretended to be magnanimous and asked to make peace with Vanessa.
The moment she stepped close to my hospital bed, with Grant standing right there, I grabbed the metal letter opener from the nightstand and drove it as hard as I could into her forearm.
Vanessa shrieked. All the color drained from Grant's face.
Hospital security and the police rushed in and pulled us apart.
Vanessa refused to make a formal statement.
After my lawyer submitted my medical records, the EPO history, and evidence of Grant's prior imprisonment of me, the prosecution ultimately declined to press charges.
But Grant's lawyers still weaponized the incident in our divorce negotiations, a stark reminder that in this marriage, he never lacked the leverage to destroy me.
I leaned back against the hospital pillows and laughed.
I laughed until the tears streamed down my face.
The next day, Grant's lawyer delivered the divorce petition, temporary asset arrangements, and a settlement proposal requiring my signature.
Grant said:
"Claire, we're getting a divorce."
A few months later, with my lawyer's help, I accepted the stripped-down agreement, and the court finalized the divorce decree.
I pulled myself out of the memories and answered Tessa:
"It doesn't matter. We're divorced anyway."
A sleek, understated Bentley pulled up right in front of us.
The window rolled down, revealing Grant's face.
Tessa hadn't noticed him yet. She was still pressing:
"So you really walked away with nothing?"
Grant and I locked eyes.
Looking right at him, I said:
"I got something. I got a promise."