Chapter 2 - The Art of the Perfect Wife
When I arrived at our Upper East Side penthouse that evening, Grant was already waiting in the living room.
He had poured two glasses of scotch and was pacing the length of the Persian rug, his tie loosened, performing the role of a deeply misunderstood man. When he heard the front door close, he rushed toward me, his face a mask of manufactured anguish.
“Harper,” he breathed, reaching out to take my coat. “Thank God you’re home. Please, you have to let me explain what happened this afternoon.”
I allowed him to take the coat. I did not flinch, though the smell of his cologne—the same cologne I had smelled on Sloane’s neck in the salon—made my stomach turn. “Explain what, Grant? That you were helping your marketing director pick out a wedding dress?”
“It’s not what it looked like!” Grant pleaded, running a hand through his perfectly styled hair. He handed me a glass of scotch. “Sloane is... she’s unstable, Harper. She has been going through a terrible breakup. She became delusional, claiming that we had this deep emotional connection just because we worked late on the Hudson Yards campaign. She booked that appointment herself. She begged me to come as a friend, just to give her an honest opinion. I was only holding the veil because she forced it into my hands right before you walked in.”
It was a masterful performance. If I hadn't spent the afternoon looking at a forged fifty-million-dollar loan document, I might have actually doubted my own sanity. He delivered the lies with such earnest, desperate sincerity that it was almost terrifying to witness.
“You told her we were basically separated emotionally,” I reminded him softly, taking a sip of the scotch.
Grant sighed heavily, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “I only said that to calm her down! She was threatening to cause a scene at the office, Harper. I was trying to de-escalate a volatile employee. I swear to you, on my life, there is nothing between us. You are my wife. You are the only woman I love.”
He reached out and gently took my free hand, kissing my knuckles. The metal of his wedding band pressed against my skin.
I looked down at him. I thought about my grandmother, Eleanor, who had built her empire by letting arrogant men underestimate her. She always said that the greatest advantage a woman could have was a man’s absolute certainty that she was foolish.
“I believe you, Grant,” I whispered, forcing a soft, forgiving smile.
Grant’s shoulders slumped in a massive, visible wave of relief. The tension drained from his face, replaced by the smug, quiet satisfaction of a man who realized he had gotten away with murder. “Thank you, Harper. Thank you. I promise, I’m going to fire her tomorrow. I’m going to make this right.”
“Don’t fire her yet,” I said smoothly, pulling my hand away to set the glass down. “It might cause unnecessary drama while you’re trying to close the Hudson Yards financing. Just keep your distance until the loan is secure.”
“You’re right. You’re always so practical, darling,” Grant smiled, completely oblivious to the trap closing around him. “Speaking of the loan, the final disbursement is this Friday. After that, the project is fully funded. We’ll be untouchable. I was thinking we could go to Paris next month to celebrate. Just the two of us.”
“I would love that,” I lied flawlessly.
Over the next four days, I played my part with terrifying precision. I attended a charity gala on his arm, smiling for the cameras while Sloane Pierce glared at me from across the ballroom. I watched as Grant subtly texted her under the table, promising her that I was clueless and that their future was secure.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, Vivienne was orchestrating a masterpiece of legal destruction.
The FBI’s forensic experts confirmed that the signature on the collateral guarantee was a blatant forgery. Confronted with federal charges, the corrupt notary, Arthur Vance, immediately flipped. He provided the FBI with recorded phone calls of Grant offering him the fifty-thousand-dollar bribe, completely destroying any chance Grant had of claiming ignorance.
But we didn't stop there. Vivienne contacted the executive board of Sterling Continental Bank under the guise of an anonymous whistleblower. We arranged for the bank’s president, the FBI lead investigator, and Vivienne to be waiting in the shadows on Friday morning.
Grant spent Thursday night packing a small overnight bag, humming cheerfully in his closet. He told me he had a celebratory weekend retreat planned with his investors immediately after the bank meeting. I knew, from Vivienne’s tracking of his corporate accounts, that he had actually booked a luxury suite in Aspen for him and Sloane.
May you like
“Wish me luck, Harper,” Grant said on Friday morning, adjusting his silk tie in the mirror and kissing my cheek. “Today is the day everything changes.”
“I know it is, Grant,” I said, adjusting his lapel. “Good luck.”
