Chapter 2 - THE PROMISE THAT BECAME A THREAT
I had spent twelve years believing my father died because a drunk driver crossed the center line.
Now an eighty-three-year-old woman was telling me someone had killed him.
In front of two hundred witnesses.
And the man holding my hand was the son of the man she had just accused.
“Grandmother,” Grant said sharply. “Enough.”
Eleanor turned toward him.
“No. I've been quiet long enough.”
Vanessa hurried forward.
“Eleanor, darling, you're upset. Perhaps we should get you upstairs.”
“Don't touch me.”
The old woman's voice cracked like a whip.
Vanessa froze.
I stepped away from Grant.
“My father died on Interstate 94,” I said. “The police said the other driver was intoxicated.”
Eleanor looked at me with unbearable sadness.
“That's what they wanted you to believe.”
“Who?”
She glanced toward the guests.
Several men near the ballroom doors had stopped pretending to enjoy the party.
One of them was Victor Sloane, Grant's longtime security chief.
He spoke quietly into his earpiece.
Eleanor noticed.
Her expression changed.
“Not here,” she whispered.
Grant followed her gaze.
Then he turned toward the orchestra.
“Music's over. Party's finished.”
Vanessa stared at him.
“Grant, we have guests from New York!”
“They can fly home.”
“But our engagement announcement—”
“Tomorrow.”
His voice left no room for argument.
Within minutes, security began escorting people toward the exits.
Phones disappeared into purses.
Whispers traveled faster than footsteps.
I stood beside the grand staircase, trying to understand how my ordinary life had suddenly become something dangerous.
Grant approached.
“You're coming with me.”
“No.”
He stopped.
“Emily—”
“You don't get to humiliate me in public and then give me orders in private.”
Something flickered across his face.
Regret, perhaps.
Or irritation.
“I deserve that,” he said.
“Yes, you do.”
He looked toward Eleanor.
“But my grandmother knows something about your father's death. And if she's right, you're not safe.”
I laughed once.
It sounded nothing like amusement.
“Your fiancée has spent two years treating me like garbage. You laughed while she humiliated me. And now I'm supposed to trust you?”
Grant looked down.
For a moment, the most feared man in Chicago seemed unable to find an answer.
“No,” he finally said. “You shouldn't trust me yet.”
That surprised me.
He continued.
“But you should hear what my grandmother has to say.”
We entered Eleanor's private sitting room.
She locked the door herself.
Then she crossed to an antique cabinet and removed a small wooden box.
Inside lay a faded photograph.
Two young men stood outside a dance studio.
One was my father.
The other was Thomas Whitmore.
Grant's father.
They were smiling with their arms around each other's shoulders.
I stared.
“They knew each other?”
Eleanor nodded.
“They were best friends.”
Grant looked stunned.
“My father never mentioned him.”
“Of course he didn't.”
She turned the photograph over.
On the back, in my father's familiar handwriting, were six words.
For Thomas. Until the music stops.
My throat tightened.
“What does that mean?”
Eleanor opened her mouth.
Before she could answer, three sharp knocks sounded at the door.
“Mr. Whitmore,” Victor called. “We have a problem.”
Grant unlocked it.
Victor stood outside holding a phone.
His face was pale.
“Someone uploaded the dance.”
Grant frowned.
“So?”
Victor swallowed.
“It's already been viewed more than four million times.”
He turned the screen toward us.
Beneath the video, one comment had been pinned by an anonymous account.
May you like
THE BROOKS GIRL IS ALIVE. FINISH WHAT STARTED TWELVE YEARS AGO.
And attached to the comment was a photograph of my sister's two little boys.
