Chapter 5
I gave it a quick three-second look and just swiped it away.
My phone buzzed again. Frank Quinn texted, "Ms. Harrington, Charles Grant booked the presidential suite at the Royal Crest Hotel today, using the Grant Group's corporate card."
Ms. Harrington replied, "Got it."
Then I opened another app—Evelyn Holdings' internal management system.
Today's to-do list: approve three investment projects, sign two contracts, and have an online meeting with Mr. Johnson at 4 PM.
I made myself a cup of coffee and got to work.
Twenty-five years ago, when Vivian Woods smiled at me, arms full of documents, I thought my life would be nothing more than waiting for my husband to come home.
But then I realized it's better to take action than to just sit around and wait.
The first year, I stayed home with Anna, and whenever I had some free time, I dabbled in stocks. I made 67 thousand dollars. That was back in 2000.
The next year, I took that 67 thousand dollars and opened a small shop selling women's fashion.
By the third year, my little shop had grown into three locations.
By the fifth year, I set up my first company.
By the tenth year, my company had grown big enough to go public.
By the fifteenth year, Evelyn Holdings was born.
By the twentieth year, Evelyn Holdings' market value had surpassed 50 billion dollars.
This year, it's reached 220 billion dollars.
Edward Grant didn't know a single thing about any of this.
Because he never asked.
When he sent home 33 grand every month, he probably felt like he was doing his duty as a husband. What he didn't realize was that his ex-wife made more in a single day than he did in a whole year.
It's not like I was keeping secrets from him. Since he never asked, I never felt the need to bring it up.
Right now.
If he doesn't sign, he'll have to eventually.
No rush.
*****
The first thing Vivian Woods did after moving into The Grant Manor was take down the family portrait from the living room.
She replaced it with a photo of her and Edward Grant in Hudson Portus.
When Uncle Bert told me about it, his voice was calm, but his hands were shaking.
"Evelyn, she told me to throw that photo away. I couldn't bring myself to do it, so I put it in the storage room," he said.
"It doesn't matter," I replied. Honestly, I really didn't care.
Then Vivian Woods started a massive renovation of The Grant Manor. She hired a designer, replaced all the furniture, had the garden completely redone, and even brought in six maids.
Charles Grant insisted the living room was too dark and wanted to put in a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.
Sylvia Grant complained her bedroom upstairs was too small and wanted to combine two rooms into one.
Ben Grant didn't care about any of it. He just spent his days reading in the study.
I couldn't care less about any of that.
What I actually cared about was something else,' I thought.
On Wednesday afternoon, Anna came to see me. As soon as she walked in, she shoved her phone right in front of my face.
"Check this out," she said.
It was a social media post from Sylvia Grant.
The photo showed the newly renovated living room at The Grant Manor, glittering with gold and looking absolutely lavish.
The caption read: "Finally home! Dad says this is the Grant family's ancestral house, and we're going to be living here for good. Mom's already busy trying to get me into the best university in the country. Can't wait for this new life!"
Someone commented: "Your house is huge! Is it a standalone villa?"
Sylvia Grant replied: "Yep, it's The Grant Manor, on West Harmony Avenue."
"Mom."
She actually called Vivian Woods "Mom."'