Chapter 4 - The House of Cards
The following Tuesday was the day the firm was meant to sign the biggest contract of Grant's career. It was the "make or break" moment he’d been grooming for years.
I arrived at his office building, not as his wife, but as a silent stakeholder. I walked past the receptionist—who had always looked through me as if I were staff—and headed straight for the boardroom.
Grant was there with the investors, his smile practiced, his suit crisp. He stopped mid-sentence when he saw me. He looked thinner, ragged around the edges.
"Claire? What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, stepping toward me.
"I’m here to audit the books," I said loudly, turning toward the investors. "And to inform you that this firm is currently under investigation for tax fraud and embezzlement. I suggest you check your due diligence documents. All of them are signed by me, and I’m withdrawing my professional backing."
The room went silent. Grant’s face turned an ugly shade of violet. He lunged for me, but the firm's head of security, whom I had already alerted to the situation, stepped between us.
"Mr. Sullivan, please don't," the guard said, his hand on his holster.
"She's lying!" Grant shrieked. "She's an unstable, hysterical woman! She's on medication!"
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I pulled a small recorder from my pocket and played a clip. It was from the night he had beaten me—the sound of his voice, the sound of the blows, and the terrifying calm with which he had told me that "no one would ever believe me because I was his possession."
The investors didn't even wait for the clip to finish. They were already packing their bags.
