Chapter 3 - The House of CardsIt took Grant, his mistress, and his family twenty-two agonizing hours to get back to Chicago on a Greyhound bus. According to the frantic, unhinged voicemails he left me, Madison had cried the entire way, Patricia had suffered a panic attack near St. Louis, and Nolan had blamed Grant for the entire disaster.
They arrived at the Lincoln Park building on Monday morning, exhausted, unwashed, and furious, only to be stopped by the concierge. When Grant tried to push his way into the elevator, building security physically restrained him, handing him three heavy black trash bags containing his designer suits and golf clubs.
I was sitting in the corner office of the Crestline Tower downtown, wearing a sharp, tailored navy suit, when the intercom buzzed.
“Ms. Mercer, your husband is in the lobby. He’s making a scene,” my assistant informed me.
“Have him sent up to Conference Room B,” I replied, taking a sip of my coffee. “And have legal meet me there.”
When I walked into the conference room, Grant looked like a feral animal. He hadn't slept, his hair was a mess, and his eyes were wild with desperation. Madison was nowhere to be seen—she had apparently taken an Uber straight to her own apartment the second she realized Grant was locked out of his penthouse.
“Evelyn!” Grant shouted, lunging forward before Cassandra, my attorney, stepped between us. “What the hell is going on? My keycard doesn't work, my bank accounts are frozen, and my boss just called to tell me Crestline pulled our logistics contract! I’ve been suspended without pay!”
“You told me to take a bus, Grant,” I said, my voice cold and devoid of any emotion. “I decided to take the entire company instead.”
“You’re my wife!” he screamed, his face turning a mottled shade of red. “Half of everything you own is mine! You can't just cut me off! I’ll sue you for half of this airline!”
Cassandra let out a sharp, genuine laugh. She pulled a document from her briefcase and slid it across the mahogany table. “Actually, Mr. Hayes, do you remember the ironclad prenuptial agreement you forced Evelyn to sign five years ago? The one you insisted upon to protect your paltry 401k and your baseball card collection?”
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Grant stared at the paper, the blood draining from his face yet again.
“You insisted that all pre-existing family assets and future inheritances remain completely separate,” Cassandra smiled, tapping the signature line. “You legally walled yourself off from the Mercer fortune to ensure Evelyn couldn't touch your savings. Congratulations. You played yourself.”
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