Chapter 2 - THE MISTRESS WASN’T THE ONLY ONE LYING
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
“Protect me from the woman carrying your child?”
“She isn’t what you think.”
“She’s thirty-eight weeks pregnant with your baby.”
“I know.”
“That makes her exactly what I think.”
“Claire, please.”
I hated the word please from him.
He had spent months making me question my instincts.
Now suddenly he needed me to trust them.
“What is Ashford Residential Trust?”
Grant lowered his voice.
“Who else is there?”
“No one.”
“Good.”
I nearly hung up.
“Grant.”
“The penthouse is yours.”
“What?”
“I transferred it six months ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew this was coming.”
My fingers tightened around the document.
“This?”
“The fight.”
“What fight?”
He stopped.
Then:
“With my father.”
I sat down.
Grant’s father, Harrison Morgan, had built Morgan Development into one of Chicago’s largest private real-estate companies before supposedly retiring two years earlier.
Supposedly.
Even after retirement, nobody moved money without Harrison knowing.
“Your father has nothing to do with Aubrey.”
“He has everything to do with Aubrey.”
My stomach turned.
“What does that mean?”
“Aubrey worked for him before she worked for me.”
I remembered.
She had been introduced at a charity event as a junior strategy consultant.
Young.
Bright.
Polished.
I had congratulated Grant for mentoring talented employees.
Idiot.
“She was reporting to him?”
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Me.”
The room seemed to narrow.
Grant explained.
Harrison suspected Grant planned to remove him permanently from several family companies after discovering hidden debt, offshore loans, and inflated construction contracts.
Aubrey had originally been assigned to watch Grant.
“Then you slept with her.”
Silence.
“Yes.”
No excuse.
Good.
“How does packing me out help?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Then why?”
“Because my mother found out Aubrey was pregnant and panicked.”
“Panicked for who?”
“For the company.”
Of course.
Grant continued.
“My parents decided moving Aubrey into the penthouse would make the baby look legitimate.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Legitimate?”
“They wanted the child publicly tied to me before the board vote.”
“What board vote?”
Another silence.
I was getting tired of discovering my marriage had a corporate agenda.
“Grant.”
“My grandfather’s trust.”
“What about it?”
“When the first Morgan grandchild is born, control of the family voting shares transfers to the child’s legal parent.”
My chest went cold.
“The mother?”
“The father, if paternity is legally recognized.”
I understood.
Aubrey’s baby was not just a baby.
It was control.
Grant’s parents were preparing an heir.
A public family unit.
And I was being removed before I interfered with the optics.
But then the obvious question hit me.
“Why transfer the penthouse to me?”
“Because I knew my mother was planning to move Aubrey in.”
I stared at the boxes.
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“And you did nothing.”
“I thought I could stop it before today.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
Then my eyes dropped to the marital agreement.
“My signature.”
“I didn’t forge it.”
“Who did?”
“Evelyn.”
My heart stopped.
“Your mother?”
“She needed the document to make it appear you had voluntarily separated property.”
I stood.
“She forged my name while telling me to stay hopeful about IVF?”
Grant said nothing.
Then I noticed another page beneath the deed.
A medical authorization.
Name:
AUBREY LANE.
Emergency contact:
GRANT MORGAN.
Relationship:
HUSBAND.
I whispered:
“You called yourself her husband before the hospital.”
“I know.”
“No.”
I looked at the date.
Eight months ago.
“This was signed eight months ago.”
Grant went silent.
May you like
He had not panicked in the emergency room.
He had been calling himself Aubrey’s husband for months.
