PART 2
Grant Whitaker came home at 1:45 a.m. three nights earlier smelling like bourbon, hotel air-conditioning, and another woman’s vanilla perfume.
I was sitting at the marble island in our penthouse kitchen overlooking Manhattan, both hands wrapped around a cup of coffee that had gone cold an hour before. The skyline looked sharp and silver beyond the glass. Below us, the city pulsed with money, secrets, and men who thought they were smarter than their wives.
Grant loosened his navy tie as he entered.
“Still awake?” he asked, leaning down to kiss my forehead.
The kiss landed lightly, almost lazily, like a receipt placed on a counter.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I said.
“Brutal night.” He opened the refrigerator, took out a bottle of water, then set his phone facedown on the counter.
That small movement hit me harder than a confession.
Men think betrayal is hidden in grand mistakes. It is not. It is hidden in reflexes. A phone turned facedown. A password changed. A pause before answering a simple question.
“How did the investor meeting go?” I asked.
Grant sighed. “Complicated. The Chicago hotel group is dragging its feet. They want more assurance before they sign.”
I knew the Chicago hotel group had already delayed the project by two months because of environmental review issues. No investor dinner was happening that week. I knew because I owned the company.
Grant was CEO of Harrington Urban Development, a subsidiary I had created for him after we married. He had charm, hunger, good hair, and just enough business vocabulary to impress people who did not read contracts closely. I gave him a title because I loved him. I gave him power because I wanted him to stand beside me, not behind me.
I had handed him a stage.
I never imagined he would use it to perform a robbery.
“There’s one thing,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I need you to approve a transfer tomorrow morning.”
I kept my expression still. “How much?”
“Seventy-five thousand.”
He said it casually, as if asking for cash for valet parking.
“For what?”
“Client hospitality. Private suite deposits. Security retainers. Gifts. You know how these things work, Evie. You have to spend money to make money.”
Evie.
He only called me that when he wanted something.
I looked at the man across from me. The man wearing the suit I had bought him, the watch I had given him, standing in the kitchen I had paid for. His face was handsome, open, practiced. Ten years ago, I had mistaken that face for honesty.
“Seventy-five thousand is a lot for hospitality,” I said.
“It’s a twenty-eight-million-dollar deal,” he replied, irritation sharpening his voice. “I thought you trusted me.”
There it was. The insult hidden inside the request.
I smiled faintly. “Of course I trust you.”
Relief flashed across his face, followed by something uglier.
Triumph.
“I’ll authorize it in the morning,” I said.
__He came around the island and wrapped his arms around me.(s) “You’re the best. I swear, when this closes, it’ll be huge for us.”
Us.
Another word men use when they mean themselves.
When he went upstairs, I remained in the kitchen until I heard the bedroom door close. Then I opened my tablet.
I did not go to the transfer page.
I went to expenses.
