Chapter 3 - The Drive to the Lion’s Den
The heating inside the Lincoln Navigator roared to life, but Grant could not shake the chill settling deep into his bones. The drive down Michigan Avenue was a blur of gray slush, towering skyscrapers, and leaden winter skies that mirrored the heavy dread pooling in his stomach.
Tessa chattered excitedly beside him, her fingers tapping rhythmically against her designer handbag. "I’ve already been looking at interior designers for the Lake Forest estate, Grant. We’re going to gut that outdated kitchen, tear down those gloomy dark-wood bookshelves Claire loved so much, and put in an open-concept marble island. It’s going to be magnificent."
Grant kept his eyes fixed on the icy road ahead, a strange knot forming in his throat. "We’ll talk about renovations after we speak with Brenner, Tessa. Let’s not count our chickens."
"Oh, please," Tessa scoffed, rolling her eyes playfully. "What is there to discuss? You’re her legal husband. There are no children. Her family money reverts to you by default, and whatever she earned independently will be split or assigned directly to her surviving spouse. It’s basic estate law, Grant. You taught me that yourself."
Basic estate law. The words echoed in Grant’s head with an unsettling hollowness.
He had spent his entire career exploiting loopholes, drafting airtight contracts, and anticipating every financial contingency. Yet, when it came to Claire, he realized with terrifying clarity that he knew almost nothing about what she had done during her final eight weeks on earth.
He remembered the afternoon Dr. Lin delivered the terminal diagnosis. While Grant was wining and dining investors, Claire had been sitting in that hospital bed, her honey-blonde hair gone, her skin translucent, listening to a death sentence. But she hadn't cried. According to Dr. Lin’s nurse—whom Grant had casually bribed for information a week after Claire passed—Claire hadn't shed a single tear.
Instead, she had asked for her laptop.
She had requested a secure video conference with David Brenner, senior partner at Brenner & Associates, the high-priced corporate law firm that handled all of the Whitmore holdings. And immediately following that call, she had met with a man named Marcus Vance—a legendary, retired federal investigator turned elite private forensic auditor known for unearthing corporate fraud and hidden offshore assets.
Why would a dying woman hire a forensic auditor?
Grant’s foot pressed harder on the gas pedal, the SUV surging forward through a yellow light. To audit the real estate accounts? To check our joint checking accounts?
He wasn't worried about joint accounts. For the past three years, Grant had systematically siphoned corporate revenues from his development firm into private, unregistered LLCs managed through offshore nominees in the Cayman Islands. He had used those funds to purchase high-end properties under fictitious corporate veils—assets Tessa knew nothing about, and assets he was certain Claire could never trace.
She was just an attorney, not a forensic wizard, Grant told himself, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. She couldn't possibly have uncovered the Cayman accounts. It took me two years and a team of corrupt international accountants to set those up.
Yet, as the black Lincoln pulled up in front of the monolithic glass-and-steel skyscraper housing Brenner & Associates, Grant felt like he was driving straight toward the executioner’s block.
May you like
Tessa reached over, placing a warm hand on his thigh. "Penny for your thoughts, handsome? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Just tired," Grant lied, forcing a strained smile. "Let’s go get this over with."
