Chapter 8 - THE PLAN TO CALL ME CRAZY
I had never seen the psychiatrist.
That part mattered.
Dr. Lucas Ward had still drafted an “initial professional opinion” describing me as emotionally volatile, potentially paranoid, and financially impulsive.
Based on information supplied by Grant.
My husband.
Naomi nearly vibrated with anger.
“This is malpractice.”
“He wanted to have me declared incompetent?”
“Not necessarily fully incompetent. But enough to challenge your standing in corporate litigation.”
I laughed.
There it was.
If I fought for my shares, Grant planned to say I was unstable.
If I exposed the affair, he would say I was hysterical.
If I challenged the finances, he would say I was paranoid.
Every path led back to silence.
Until I stopped walking where he planned.
Dr. Ward folded within twenty-four hours after Naomi contacted his attorney.
He admitted Grant paid him for a private “consultation” based solely on secondhand descriptions.
He had never diagnosed me.
Never met me.
Never should have written the opinion.
Grant called that night.
“Claire, Daniel pushed that.”
“Your brother did not sign the check.”
Silence.
“I was scared.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing everything.”
“You mean my everything.”
He exhaled.
“I can fix this.”
“No.”
“I can transfer the shares back.”
“You don’t get credit for returning stolen property.”
“I love you.”
That sentence once would have reached me.
Now it sounded like another tool he had forgotten no longer worked.
“You loved being needed.”
“Claire—”
“You loved that I made dinner, organized your life, entertained clients, remembered your mother’s appointments, designed your company, and never asked what my contribution was worth.”
“I didn’t think of you like that.”
“That’s the problem.”
I ended the call.
The next morning, Harbor Bridge’s independent board suspended Grant.
Five minutes later, Sophie sent me a message.
You need to see this.
Attached was video from a private hotel bar.
Grant.
Daniel.
A third man.
Elliot Kane.
My stomach dropped.
The timestamp was six months earlier.
Before the financing process officially began.
I watched Elliot sit with my husband and brother-in-law for forty minutes.
My pulse sharpened.
Had he known?
Had the calm billionaire investor helping me been part of this before I ever posted the photos?
I called him.
He answered immediately.
“Claire.”
“You met Grant six months ago.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because the meeting was confidential.”
I laughed.
“So was my marriage.”
“That’s fair.”
“What did you discuss?”
“The financing.”
“Anything about me?”
Silence.
My stomach sank.
“Elliot.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
He exhaled.
“Grant asked whether our firm would proceed if his wife contested ownership.”
I went cold.
“He knew I might find out.”
“He was preparing for it.”
“And you?”
“I told him any undisclosed ownership dispute would kill the deal.”
“Then why keep negotiating?”
“Because I wanted proof.”
I frowned.
“Proof of what?”
Elliot’s answer came quietly.
“That Grant Whitmore had stolen Harbor Bridge from you.”
I stopped breathing.
Then he added:
“Because I knew your mother.”
May you like
My mother had been dead for seven years.
And apparently she had left one more secret behind.
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