Chapter 3 - Aubrey’s Hospital Room
Aubrey called me two days later.
Her number appeared on my phone just after midnight.
For several seconds, I watched it ring.
Then I answered.
“Hello, Aubrey.”
She was quiet.
I could hear hospital sounds in the background. A monitor. A cart rolling down a hall. The distant cry of a newborn.
“I didn’t know you were pregnant,” she said.
Neither did Grant.
I pressed one hand against my stomach.
“He did not know either.”
Aubrey inhaled sharply.
“Grant told me you two had been trying for years, but that it was over.”
“That must have been convenient for him.”
“He told me you were separated.”
“He was sleeping beside me last week.”
Silence.
I could imagine her face then. The expensive apartment. The pendant around her neck. The newborn boy asleep near her hospital bed. The life she had believed Grant would hand her without consequences.
“I know you hate me,” Aubrey whispered.
“I do not know you well enough to hate you.”
That was true.
Aubrey was not the architect of my marriage’s destruction. She was part of it. She had made choices. But Grant was the man who promised me loyalty, shared my bed, used my money, and lied to my face.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I need to know whether Grant is in trouble.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so revealing.
Even now, she did not ask how I was.
She asked whether the life Grant promised her was about to disappear.
“You should get your own lawyer,” I said.
“What does that mean?”
“It means the company paid for your apartment and medical expenses through a shell vendor. It means Grant may have used investor funds. It means you should ask yourself whether you signed anything, accepted transfers, or allowed your name to be used on documents.”
Her breathing became unsteady.
“He told me it was all legitimate.”
“Then ask him to prove it.”
“Claire—”
“I am not the person who needs to explain Grant to you anymore.”
I ended the call.
The next morning, Aubrey’s attorney contacted Naomi.
Aubrey wanted to cooperate.
At first, Naomi advised caution. Aubrey might be trying to protect herself, hide information, or negotiate her way out of responsibility.
But the documents she provided were devastating.
Grant had created false contracts for Aubrey’s public-relations “consulting.” He used those contracts to justify transfers from Mercer Development.
He had sent Aubrey messages instructing her not to mention certain expenses in writing.
He had asked her to delete invoices.
And he had promised her that once I “stopped being difficult,” he would put the condominium in her name.
One message stood out.
Claire will never look closely. She cares too much about keeping the peace.
I read it twice.
Then I placed the phone down.
For years, I had believed keeping the peace was the same as being a good wife.
I had stayed quiet when Grant canceled plans.
I had accepted explanations that made no sense.
I had ignored the smell of perfume, the hidden phone, the altered schedules, and the distance growing between us.
I had thought patience would bring him back.
Instead, it had taught him I would tolerate anything.
But not anymore.
That afternoon, Grant arrived at Naomi’s office.
He had no appointment.
He demanded to see me.
Naomi’s receptionist refused.
Grant raised his voice.
Then he saw me through the glass conference-room wall.
I was sitting beside Naomi with my hands folded over the red folder.
He stormed inside before security could stop him.
“Are you pregnant?” he asked.
No greeting.
No apology.
No question about my health.
Just fear.
I looked at him.
“Yes.”
Grant’s face drained of color.
“How far along?”
“Six weeks.”
His lips parted.
“Is it mine?”
I did not answer immediately.
Naomi stepped in.
“Mr. Mercer, your questions will be addressed through counsel and under appropriate legal protections.”
Grant ignored her.
“Claire, please.”
I looked at him carefully.
He looked exhausted. His suit was rumpled. His eyes were red. The confident man who had once made every room bend around him now seemed smaller.
But I knew better than to confuse collapse with change.
“Yes,” I said. “The baby is yours.”
Grant sat down heavily.
For a moment, he stared at the floor.
Then he whispered, “A daughter?”
I nodded.
Tears filled his eyes.
“I have a daughter.”
“You have a daughter you did not know about because you were at a prenatal appointment with another woman.”
His face twisted.
“I can fix this.”
“No.”
“Claire—”
“You can take responsibility for your choices,” I said. “You can cooperate with the company investigation. You can support both of your children. You can become someone who does not lie when people depend on him.”
Grant reached for the table.
“But I love you.”
I looked at him.
“You loved being able to come home to me while you built another life.”
May you like
Then I slid the divorce papers toward him.
“This is what fixing it looks like now.”
