Chapter 2 - THE LETTER THAT KEPT US APART
The handwriting looked like mine.
Almost.
That was what frightened me.
The slope of the E.
The way the G in Grant curved too far left.
Even the little line I sometimes drew beneath his name.
Someone had studied me.
I reached for the letter.
Grant hesitated before handing it over.
Inside were four sentences.
Last night should never have happened.
I don’t want to reopen what we buried.
Please go back to Vanessa.
Do not contact me again.
My stomach turned.
“I didn’t write this.”
Grant looked at me for a long time.
“I believe you.”
“You believed it for eight months.”
“I had no reason not to.”
“You could have called.”
“The letter said not to.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You obeyed one piece of paper from your ex-wife but ignored six years of me asking you to come home before midnight?”
Fair hit.
He accepted it.
Then I noticed something.
The envelope.
Cream stationery.
Embossed corner.
My old initials:
ECH.
Emily Carter Hale.
I had used that paper while married.
I stopped after the divorce.
“Where did this come from?”
“It was delivered to my apartment the morning after the hotel.”
“By whom?”
“My security.”
“Name?”
Grant went quiet.
That told me everything.
“Who?”
“Victor Dane.”
I knew Victor.
Grant’s chief adviser.
Fifty-five.
Quiet.
Always polite.
The man who handled most of my divorce logistics because Grant refused to sit through the meetings himself.
Victor had once told me:
“You’ll be happier outside this world.”
At the time, I thought he meant kindness.
Now it sounded different.
“Victor delivered it personally?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say where he got it?”
“That a courier brought it from your building.”
“I wasn’t living in that building anymore.”
Grant’s face changed.
“What?”
“I moved three weeks before the hotel.”
He stared.
I had never told him.
Why would I?
We were divorced.
The old apartment had been a temporary rental.
Only a few people knew I moved.
My attorney.
My landlord.
My best friend.
And Grant’s lawyers, because they needed my new address for the remaining property paperwork.
Victor.
Grant took out his phone.
I stopped him.
“No.”
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Do not call Victor from here.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Because if he forged a letter, I’d rather know why before you let him know we figured it out.”
For three seconds, Grant looked almost impressed.
Then:
“You always were smarter when you were angry.”
“I was smart before.”
His mouth tightened.
“Right.”
Progress.
Then my manager appeared at the kitchen door.
“Emily?”
Reality.
Work.
I turned.
“Sorry.”
He glanced at Grant.
Everyone knew who Grant was.
My manager looked terrified.
Grant noticed.
“I’m leaving.”
I almost laughed.
“You still have dinner.”
“Not anymore.”
Vanessa stood several feet away.
She had heard enough.
She removed her coat from the chair and approached.
“I’m leaving too.”
Grant said nothing.
Vanessa looked at me.
There was no kindness in her face.
But there was something I respected more.
Directness.
“I didn’t know.”
“About the pregnancy?”
“About that night.”
I nodded.
She looked at Grant.
“We’re done.”
His face remained still.
“You already ended it months ago.”
Vanessa laughed.
“You told everyone it was temporary.”
“It wasn’t.”
That explained more than I expected.
She turned and left.
I watched her disappear into the elevator.
Then Grant looked at me.
“You said you needed this job.”
My body stiffened.
“Do not.”
“I wasn’t going to offer money.”
“Good.”
He glanced toward my swollen ankles.
Then back at me.
“What happened in the divorce settlement?”
I stared.
“You were there.”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“Victor handled most of it.”
“Yes.”
“And my attorneys told me you received the apartment, three million dollars, the Mercer Street investment account, and ongoing health coverage.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
Grant’s face changed.
“You didn’t?”
I laughed.
It sounded ugly.
“Grant, I left our marriage with seventy-two thousand dollars after legal fees.”
Silence.
“The apartment was sold.”
His jaw tightened.
“The investment account?”
“I was told it had been liquidated to cover business liabilities.”
“What business liabilities?”
“I don’t know.”
His eyes went cold.
“Health coverage?”
“Ended six months after the divorce.”
Grant stared at me.
Then at my shoes.
My uniform.
My stomach.
And I watched him understand something far worse than seeing his pregnant ex-wife serving champagne.
Someone had lied to both of us.
Then I added:
“Your lawyers also told me you personally rejected my request to keep the Brooklyn warehouse.”
Grant’s expression froze.
“I never saw that request.”
The same warehouse where we had met eight months earlier.
The final property still connecting us.
Someone had deliberately kept it unresolved.
May you like
And suddenly the forged letter was not the beginning.
It was only the newest piece.
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