The screens on either side of the grand ballroom didn't just flicker—they blazed with cold, unforgiving light.

By noon, news of Grant’s firing hit the financial news outlets.

Stock in Ashford Development plummeted forty percent in two hours. The company board, terrified of total insolvency, issued a formal public statement confirming that Evelyn Whitmore had stepped in as interim chairwoman to restructure the firm.

I spent the afternoon at the company’s corporate headquarters downtown—a glass-and-steel skyscraper that my father had helped finance ten years ago.

When I walked through the glass doors of the executive suite, the staff stood up from their cubicles in dead silence. These were people who had watched Grant order me around like a secretary whenever I dropped by to bring him lunch.

Now, they looked at me with a mix of awe and terror.

"Mrs. Whitmore," Grant’s former executive assistant, Sarah, stammered, stepping forward with a trembling tablet. "We... we gathered the financial audits you requested. But Mr. Ashford took several hard drives from his office before security escorted him out."

I paused near the door to the corner office. "Which hard drives?"

"The off-shore vendor ledgers," Sarah whispered, looking around nervously. "The ones related to the foundation's overseas charitable contributions."

I narrowed my eyes. "Marcus."

"I'm already on it," Marcus said, stepping beside me with his phone to his ear. "If Grant is trying to access the off-shore accounts, he’s about to commit federal bank fraud. I’ll alert forensic accounting."

Meanwhile, three miles away, in a high-end penthouse apartment that I had paid the lease on, Grant was pacing back and forth across the hardwood floor.

Brooke sat on the Italian leather sofa, furiously scrolling through her phone, her face pale.

"My agency just dropped me," Brooke said, her voice shrill with panic. "My manager said I'm 'pr toxic'! Grant, you said this was going to blow over! You said your wife was just throwing a fit!"

"Shut up, Brooke!" Grant screamed, slamming his fist against the wall. "I'm trying to think!"

"Don't tell me to shut up!" Brooke yelled back, standing up. "I lost three brand deals today because of your stupid stunt last night! You promised me you'd leave her and give me the plaza penthouse!"

"There is no plaza penthouse!" Grant roared, grabbing a glass vase and smashing it against the floor. "She took it all! She owns the company! She owns the land! She even owns this damn apartment!"

Brooke blinked, taking a slow step back. "What do you mean she owns this apartment?"

Before Grant could answer, the electronic lock on the front door beeped.

The heavy steel door swung open. Two sheriff's deputies stepped inside, followed by a process server holding a stack of legal papers.

"Grant Ashford?" the lead deputy asked.

"What is this now?!" Grant shouted, wiping sweat from his forehead.

"You are being formally served with an emergency eviction notice for these premises," the deputy said calmly. "And a temporary restraining order issued on behalf of Evelyn Whitmore. You have twenty minutes to collect your personal belongings."

Brooke gasped, looking at Grant like he was a burning building. She immediately grabbed her designer purse from the table.