Chapter 4 - THE PROPERTY HE NEVER OWNED
Grant’s investor deck contained twelve slides about international expansion.
Four featured London.
One showed a rendering of luxury residences along the Thames.
Another described “exclusive family-linked development access.”
Family-linked.
My family.
The deck never claimed Holloway Urban legally owned Wycliffe Riverfront.
That would have been too obvious.
Instead, it implied Grant had privileged access through “historic relationships.”
Banks understand implication.
Investors do too.
So did I.
“You used me after the divorce.”
Grant shook his head.
“That presentation was preliminary.”
“You showed lenders a property connected to my family.”
“It was a vision.”
“Whose vision?”
His jaw tightened.
“Charlotte, you introduced me to Margaret.”
“Yes.”
“She liked me.”
“She tolerated you.”
Madison looked between us.
“Who is Margaret?”
“My aunt.”
“The duchess?”
“The previous duchess.”
Grant looked annoyed.
“We discussed Wycliffe years ago.”
“We discussed it as married people.”
“You said she wanted development partners.”
“She did.”
“You said Holloway could be ideal.”
“Before you slept with Madison.”
That ended that line.
Madison flinched.
Good.
Not because I wanted to hurt her.
Because reality should not be edited for comfort.
Then Arthur handed Grant another page.
A lender questionnaire.
Question:
Does Holloway Urban possess contractual, familial, beneficial, or preferential rights to the Wycliffe Riverfront site?
Answer:
YES.
Supporting documentation:
Letter from Charlotte Wycliffe Holloway.
My stomach tightened.
“What letter?”
Grant said nothing.
Arthur gave me the copy.
It was from eight years earlier.
During our marriage.
I had written to Aunt Margaret:
Grant and I would love the opportunity to discuss whether Holloway Urban could someday participate in Wycliffe Riverfront if you decide to pursue development.
That was all.
A family letter.
Not permission.
Not an option.
Not an asset.
Yet it had been placed into a modern lender package as evidence of continuing preferential access.
My married name still appeared.
Charlotte Wycliffe Holloway.
No notation that we had divorced four years earlier.
No notation that Aunt Margaret had died.
No notation that I controlled the estate now and had never granted Holloway anything.
I looked at Grant.
“When did you submit this?”
“Last year.”
Madison turned toward him.
“Last year?”
Her tone had changed.
Because last year she had been his fiancée.
Last year Grant had been using a letter from his ex-wife to make himself appear connected to her family.
“You told me Charlotte had no family money,” Madison said.
Grant snapped:
“She didn’t then.”
I almost smiled.
Technically, I had not.
Margaret was alive.
The estate was hers.
Then Madison said:
“You told my father your London strategy came through your own network.”
“It did.”
“No.”
She looked at the letter.
“It came through Charlotte.”
Grant’s face hardened.
“Harrison invested because of Manhattan projects, not London.”
Maybe.
But forty million dollars can make people ask uncomfortable questions.
The gala coordinator appeared again.
“Mr. Holloway, we need you inside. Your opening remarks are in twelve minutes.”
Grant looked at the ballroom doors.
Then at me.
This night mattered to him.
Press.
Donors.
Investors.
Madison’s father.
His board.
He had arranged table nineteen to remind me what I lost.
Now he seemed to understand the opposite possibility.
I walked toward the ballroom.
He called after me.
“Charlotte.”
I stopped.
“If you embarrass me tonight—”
I turned slowly.
“Grant.”
He stopped.
“I haven’t said one public word about you.”
That was true.
Everything unraveling around him came from his own documents.
Then I added:
“If that feels embarrassing, perhaps you should ask why.”
I entered the ballroom.
My table was beside the stage.
And resting on my place setting was an envelope I had not expected.
No name.
No seal.
Inside was a photograph.
Grant and Madison.
Not together.
May you like
Grant with another woman.
Taken three months earlier.
