Chapter 3 - The Morning After the Storm
By six o'clock the next morning, the video recorded by the young executive had racked up four million views on social media.
The headlines were merciless:
“ASHFORD UNRAVELED: BILLIONAIRE REAL ESTATE MOGUL EJECTED FROM OWN GALA BY HEIRESS WIFE.”
“THE $14 MILLION MISTAKE: HOW GRANT ASHFORD LOST HIS EMPIRE IN FIVE MINUTES.”
I sat in the sunlit breakfast nook of my family’s estate in Lincoln Park, quietly sipping Earl Grey tea. My personal attorney, Marcus Vance—a sharp, gray-haired man who had managed my father's legal affairs for thirty years—placed a thick blue folder on the glass table.
"He's been trying to call you since three in the morning," Marcus said, pulling out a chair. "Forty-two missed calls. Twelve text messages ranging from wild threats to frantic begging."
"Has he realized what the termination clause actually means?" I asked, not looking up from my tea.
"Not yet," Marcus chuckled softly. "He thinks he just lost the gala funding. He doesn't realize that under the cross-collateralization agreement he signed three years ago, his personal holdings in Ashford Development were tied directly to the completion of the civic plaza."
"Which means?"
"Which means," Marcus leaned forward, "the moment you pulled the Whitmore Foundation's backing, his entire company went into default. The bank seized his primary operating accounts at dawn."
A soft knock came at the heavy oak front door down the hall.
A moment later, my housekeeper, Maria, stepped into the dining room, looking uneasy. "Mrs. Ashford... Grant is at the gate. He's demanding to see you."
"Is he alone?"
"No. He brought his personal lawyer. And... the young lady from last night is in his car."
I set my teacup down with a soft click. "Let him in, Maria. But only Grant. His lawyer and his mistress stay outside the gate."
Five minutes later, Grant burst into the room.
He didn't look like the polished tycoon who had insulted me twelve hours ago. His tuxedo jacket was gone, his white shirt was wrinkled at the collar, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes.
"Evelyn!" he yelled, marching toward the table. "Have you lost your mind?! My bank froze my cards! My board of directors just called an emergency meeting to remove me as CEO!"
I didn't flinch. "Good morning, Grant."
"Don't 'good morning' me!" he shouted, slamming his palms onto the table. "Undo this! Call Marcus and tell him it was a misunderstanding! Do you have any idea what you're doing to my reputation?!"
Marcus slowly stood up from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket. "Mr. Ashford, I suggest you lower your tone in Mrs. Whitmore’s house."
Grant glared at Marcus, then turned back to me, his chest heaving. "Is this about Brooke? Is that what this pathetic temper tantrum is about?! Because you were jealous?!"
May you like
I looked up at him, feeling an unexpected wave of pity. Not for myself, but for how blind he truly was.
"Jealous, Grant?" I asked softly. "I paid for the dress she wore last night. I paid for the car she drove here in. Why would I be jealous of a woman who is living off my leftovers?"
