Chapter 6 - Greg's Arrival and the Crumbling Facade
The backyard had ceased to be a Fourth of July barbecue; it was now the site of an emotional demolition.
Brooke scrambled forward on her hands and knees across the grass toward Greg, heedless of the dirt staining the knees of her expensive linen trousers. “Greg, listen to me! You love me! We have a life planned! The house in the Hamptons, the wedding in Martha’s Vineyard—it’s all booked! You know who I am!”
“I don't have the slightest idea who you are,” Greg said, stepping back again, putting five yards of open lawn between them. The polite, easygoing aristocrat had vanished. In his place was a man looking at a stranger with absolute, unadulterated horror. “You told me your sister-in-law was an unstable, jealous woman who bullied you. You had me feeling sorry for you! My mother spent three weeks organizing a bridal shower for you with sixty of her closest friends!”
“I can explain everything if you just come to the car!” Brooke begged, her voice degrading into a desperate whimper. “They set me up, Greg! Clare planned this! Look at her, she brought a folder! Who brings a folder of papers to a family cookout unless they want to destroy someone?”
“I brought the folder,” I said, stepping forward, “because you have threatened to destroy my family at every gathering we have attended for thirty-six months. And today, you looked my eight-year-old son in the eyes and tried to break his heart. You brought this on yourself, Brooke.”
Greg looked at me. His eyes moved to the blue folder on the cedar table. Without saying a word, he walked past Brooke, completely ignoring her outstretched hands. He walked up to the patio table, reached out, and picked up the folder.
Brooke let out a strangled scream. “Greg, don't look at that! That’s private legal paperwork! It’s illegal for her to show you that!”
“Shut up, Brooke,” Greg said coldly.
He opened the cover. He flipped through the pages with clinical, devastating focus.
He saw the cashier's check for forty-two thousand dollars with Brooke’s endorsement signature on the back.
He saw the certified police report detailing the freezing apartment and the baby in the laundry basket.
He saw the Verizon text message logs from just three weeks ago, where Brooke had texted me: *‘Greg’s dad is giving him a fifty-thousand-dollar wedding bonus. If you don't want me to file a petition for biological visitation right before the ceremony, you’ll send five grand to my Venmo by Friday. Don't test me, Clare.’*
Greg read that text message three times. His jaw tightened so hard the muscle feathered under his tanned cheek.
He looked up from the page, his face completely devoid of color. “You were shaking her down using my family’s name?”
Brooke sat back on her heels on the grass, silent, shaking, unable to form another lie. The evidence was too dense, too complete, too legally airtight. Her house of cards hadn't just collapsed—it had been burned to the ground.
Greg closed the folder with a sharp, decisive snap. He laid it gently back on the table in front of me.
He looked at Daniel. “Daniel, I am… I am so deeply sorry. I had no idea. I swear to you on my father’s life, I knew nothing about any of this. If I had known, I never would have set foot in your lives.”
“We know, Greg,” Daniel said quietly. “Brooke is very good at what she does. She spent three years making Clare and me look like the villains to everyone who would listen.”
Greg turned his head slowly to look down at Brooke.
She looked up at him with pleading, bloodshot eyes. “Greg… baby… please…”
Greg reached into the front pocket of his linen blazer. He pulled out a small velvet box. He had clearly brought it with him to give her something special in front of her family for the holiday. Without opening it, he let his hand drop.
The velvet box fell onto the grass with a muffled thud, right beside the crushed lilies and the rolling champagne bottle.
“The wedding is off,” Greg said. His voice was completely flat, drained of any anger—just the cold, final verdict of a man terminating an intolerable contract. “Do not come back to my apartment. I’m calling building security the moment I get in my car and having your keycard deactivated. I will have a moving company pack whatever clothes you left in the closet and drop them off at your mother’s house tomorrow morning.”
“Greg! No! You can’t do this to me! We signed a venue deposit!” Brooke screamed, scrambling to her feet, lunging toward him.
Greg sidestepped her with effortless disgust. “If you contact me, my parents, or anyone at my firm, Brooke, I will personally hire the best litigation team in the city to ensure you are prosecuted for every dime of extortion documented in that folder. Do you understand me?”
Brooke froze.
Greg looked at me one last time. He gave a brief, respectful nod. “Clare. You’re a remarkable mother. Those kids are lucky they ended up with you.”
He turned on his heel, walked down the stone path, got into his Porsche, and started the engine. The sports car backed down the long driveway with a low, throaty roar, turned onto the suburban road, and vanished.
The backyard was left in absolute, devastating silence.
Brooke stood in the middle of the lawn, alone. Her fiancé was gone. Her wedding was gone. Her social standing, her luxurious future, her carefully crafted reputation—all of it had evaporated in less than twenty minutes.
She turned slowly back toward the patio table. Her face was twisted with an almost demonic hatred.
May you like
“You,” Brooke whispered, pointing a shaking, manicured finger at me. “You ruined my life. You took my children, and now you took my husband. I swear to God, Clare, you will pay for this. I am going to family court tomorrow morning. I don't care about the money anymore. I will spend every breath I have dragging you through the mud until those kids hate you as much as I do!”
***
