Chapter 3 - The Scent of Eleanor’s Diamonds

At 2:30 a.m., the heavy mahogany doors of my residence in Oakridge swung open.

Grant stumbled into the foyer, his tie undone, the scent of expensive bourbon and rain clinging to his coat. He slammed his keys onto the marble console with enough force to echo through the vaulted hallway.

I was sitting in the library, illuminated only by the green banker’s lamp on my father’s antique desk. In front of me sat an open velvet box, completely empty.

“You made a fool out of me tonight, Evie,” Grant growled, stalking into the doorway, his eyes bloodshot with exhaustion and rage. “Do you have any idea who was sitting at that table? The managing director of Midwest Capital! The senior partner of Davies & Cole! You just blew up a hundred-million-dollar municipal bond offering!”

“You blew it up yourself, Grant, the moment you used stolen bonds as your collateral,” I said, not moving a single muscle.

He froze, his jaw tightening until the tendons in his neck stood out like cords. “What did you say?”

“The Nassau accounts. The Nevada LLC. The forged signatures on the North Shore logistics buyout.” I looked up, meeting his murderous stare with an icy calm. “Did you really think Clara Vance wouldn't find the IP logs from your office computer? Did you think my father’s bankers were loyal to your charm?”

Grant let out a harsh, dry laugh, taking two steps toward the desk. “You think you can prove that in court? My attorneys drafted those documents under implied consent! We’ve been married for seven years, Evie. A judge will look at that dinner and see an estranged, hysterical wife having a public breakdown over a pregnant mistress.”

“Where is she, Grant?” I asked softly.

“She’s at the downtown suite,” he sneered, leaning his knuckles onto the leather blotter. “Where she belongs. In a bed paid for by the Whitaker Group. And tomorrow morning, she’s registering for our child’s trust.”

“Take off the jacket, Grant.”

He blinked, thrown off balance by the command. “What?”

“The jacket. The watch. The signet ring my father gave you on our wedding day.” I stood up, towering over the desk. “And tell your mistress that if Eleanor’s diamonds are not returned to this velvet box by 8:00 a.m., the grand larceny report my attorney drafted will be hand-delivered to the county sheriff with a felony warrant.”

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Grant’s face turned an ugly, mottled shade of purple. “Eleanor gave those diamonds to me!”

“Eleanor’s will left every piece of family jewelry to the surviving Whitaker lineage, Grant,” I said, my voice dropping to a whisper that rattled the quiet room. “You took her name when you were a junior associate with three maxed-out credit cards. You leave this house tonight with exactly what you brought into it: nothing.”