Chapter 4 - The House on 72nd Street
Celeste’s mouth opened, but no sound came out.
She looked at Grant, waiting for the thunderous correction, waiting for the billionaire who had bought her vintage champagne and promised her a Madison Avenue storefront to put this tired, pregnant woman in her place.
Grant didn't move. He stood with the phone dangling at his side, looking like a man whose house had collapsed while he was busy admiring the curtains.
“Grant?” Celeste’s voice acquired a sharp, shrill edge. “Tell her she can’t do that. I have personal belongings in the penthouse. My wardrobe from the shoot is there!”
“You have until midnight to collect what you brought with you,” Rebecca said without looking up from her screen. “Anything purchased on the Holloway corporate card after December first remains on the premises pending inventory by the receiver.”
“You can’t steal my clothes!” Celeste gasped.
“We aren't stealing them,” Rebecca replied smoothly. “We’re securing them as evidence of unauthorized asset diversion. If you touch anything cataloged under the corporate depreciation schedule, you’ll be answering to the New York County District Attorney’s financial crimes division by Monday morning.”
Celeste turned a violent shade of crimson. She looked at Grant again, but he wasn't looking at her. He was staring at the floor, his breathing ragged and shallow.
“Claire,” Grant said, his voice dropping into a desperate, hurried rasp. “Let’s go home. Let’s get in our car, go to Greenwich, and sit down like two adults. We have a child coming. Think about the baby.”
A cold, bitter laugh rose in my throat, but I kept it locked behind my teeth.
“You didn't think about the baby when you booked the suite at the Mercer for Celeste’s birthday while I was in the hospital with severe dehydration,” I said quietly. “You didn't think about the baby when you moved my seat to the third row tonight so your mistress could look good in the photographs next to your lapel.”
“I made a mistake!” Grant pleaded, stepping toward me again, his hands raised in surrender. “Men make mistakes, Claire. It’s the pressure. The deals, the debt, the expectations—I lost my head. But you’re my wife. Everything I built, I built for our family!”
“You didn't build this,” I said, gesturing faintly toward the concrete walls around us. “You borrowed it. You borrowed my father’s name to get your first commercial meeting. You borrowed my trust fund to secure your first construction bond. And then you convinced yourself you were a self-made titan because the people you paid told you what you wanted to hear.”
I adjusted my shawl around my shoulders. The swollen ache in my feet was intensifying, a deep, rhythmic throb reminding me that my body was doing work far more important than destroying Grant Holloway’s ego.
“Where are you going?” Grant asked as I turned toward the exit corridor that led to the service elevators.
“To my house,” I said.
“Our house in Greenwich?”
“No,” I replied. “The townhouse on East 64th. The one my father bought in 1994. The one you told me was too small and old-fashioned for someone of your stature.”
“Claire, please,” he choked out, following me two steps before Rebecca stepped directly into his path, her arm extended.
“Do not follow her, Mr. Holloway,” Rebecca stated with absolute finality. “A temporary restraining order prohibiting you from contacting Claire outside of legal counsel has already been filed electronically. You will be formally served when you leave this building.”
Grant stopped dead. His jaw worked silently.
Celeste was backing away now, her eyes darting between the emergency exit and Grant, realizing with brutal clarity that the luxury yacht she had climbed aboard was already halfway beneath the waves.
We took the freight elevator down to the loading dock where my father’s old driver, Thomas, was waiting with an unremarkable black Lincoln sedan. No sirens, no photographers, no entourage.
As Thomas opened the heavy door for me, the SoHo night air hit my face—cool, sharp, and clean. Rain had begun to fall, slicking the cobblestones with black oil and neon reflections.
“Are you alright, Claire?” Rebecca asked as she climbed into the leather seat beside me.
May you like
I placed both palms flat against my belly. Beneath the emerald fabric, a small, strong kick answered my touch.
“I’m tired,” I whispered, leaning my head back against the headrest as the car slid smoothly into the Manhattan traffic. “But for the first time in six years, I can breathe.”
