Chapter 2 - The Ring on the Floor
Grant returned home at 1:42 in the morning.
He expected the apartment to be dark.
Instead, every light in the living room was on.
Claire was gone.
He stopped in the doorway.
“Claire?”
Nothing.
He called again.
Still nothing.
His gaze moved around the room.
The dinner table remained untouched.
The cake still sat beneath the glass dome.
Two wineglasses.
One full.
One half empty.
Then he saw something on the floor.
A ring.
Grant froze.
He recognized it instantly.
The wedding ring had landed beside the entryway rug.
He bent down and picked it up.
For the first time that night, his stomach dropped.
“Claire?”
He searched the bedroom.
Bathroom.
Guest room.
Closet.
Nothing.
Her clothes were still there.
Some.
Not all.
The suitcase was gone.
So was the envelope she had carried earlier.
Grant sat on the edge of the bed.
His first instinct was anger.
Why would she leave without telling him?
Then he remembered the joke.
I can always marry again.
He closed his eyes.
He suddenly wished he could take the sentence back.
Not because he had meant it literally.
He hadn't.
It had been stupid.
Careless.
A joke between two men who had spent too much time talking about business and not enough time talking about the people waiting at home.
But words had weight.
Especially when spoken to the person already standing at the edge.
He called Claire.
Straight to voicemail.
Again.
Nothing.
He opened their shared location app.
Her phone was active.
At a hotel in Queens.
Grant grabbed his coat.
Then stopped.
Something on the dresser caught his eye.
An old photograph.
Claire was twenty-three.
He was twenty-seven.
They were sitting on the floor of their first apartment surrounded by moving boxes.
Grant had his arm around her.
She was laughing.
He stared at the photo.
He remembered that woman.
She had believed in him when no one else did.
She had worked two jobs while he built his first company.
She had eaten cheap noodles with him when his bank account was nearly empty.
She had never complained when business was difficult.
He had promised himself he would give her everything.
Somehow, in chasing everything, he had forgotten to give her himself.
Grant drove to the hotel.
He found Claire sitting in a small lobby lounge beside a window.
She wore gray sweatpants, a sweater, and no wedding ring.
A folder rested beside her.
Grant approached slowly.
“Claire.”
She didn't look at him.
“Go home.”
“I want to talk.”
“Now you do.”
He sat across from her.
“I didn't mean what I said.”
“You meant enough of it to laugh.”
“I was joking.”
“I know.”
That answer hurt.
“You know?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
Claire lifted her eyes.
“Because I finally stopped making excuses for you.”
Grant felt the words land.
“What are you talking about?”
She pushed the folder toward him.
“Read.”
He opened it.
Hospital records.
Medical bills.
Prescription information.
Therapy appointments.
His face changed.
“What is this?”
“My life.”
He looked at the date.
June 14.
Then another document.
June 15.
Then another.
June 18.
He looked up.
“You didn't tell me.”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Four times.”
He stared at her.
“What?”
“Four times I tried.”
She continued.
“The first time you were in Dallas.”
“I was working.”
“I know.”
“The second time your flight was delayed.”
“I know.”
“The third time you were at your father's memorial foundation dinner.”
“I know.”
“The fourth time I sat across from you at this exact hotel.”
He frowned.
“What?”
“You don't remember.”
Grant couldn't.
Claire smiled sadly.
“That night I told you I was sick.”
His chest tightened.
“You said you were tired.”
“I was.”
“You said you were going to bed.”
“I was.”
“You kissed me and went upstairs.”
“I didn't know.”
“No.”
Her voice cracked.
“You didn't want to know.”
Grant looked down.
The silence stretched.
Then Claire reached for her phone.
She showed him the photograph.
Grant and Amelia at the Boston hotel.
His face drained.
“Claire.”
“Don't.”
“I can explain.”
“Of course you can.”
He stared at the image.
“Nothing happened.”
She laughed softly.
“That's what you always say when something looks bad.”
He leaned forward.
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Amelia was there because of the Mercer Foundation.”
“That hotel?”
“Yes.”
“Same room?”
“She was meeting an investor.”
“And you stayed overnight?”
“I didn't sleep with her.”
“You didn't answer my question.”
“I stayed because the meeting ran late.”
Claire stared.
Grant realized how weak it sounded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
He had no answer.
Claire nodded.
“Exactly.”
She pushed the divorce papers across the table.
“I found these at home.”
Grant's eyes widened.
“You weren't supposed to see those.”
“Who drafted them?”
“My attorney.”
“Why?”
He looked away.
“Because I thought…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“I thought you might want out.”
Claire stared at him.
“You thought?”
“I knew you were unhappy.”
“And instead of asking me, you prepared divorce papers.”
Grant swallowed.
He had no defense.
Claire gathered her things.
“I want a divorce.”
“Claire.”
“I don't hate you.”
He looked at her.
“That would make this easier.”
She stood.
“I just don't want to spend another year waiting for you to notice I'm gone.”
She walked away.
Grant followed her outside.
Rain had begun falling.
“Claire!”
She stopped.
He ran toward her.
“Please don't make a decision tonight.”
She turned.
“I didn't make it tonight.”
He realized what she meant.
“I made it slowly.”
She walked into the rain.
Grant stood there helplessly.
Then a black SUV stopped at the curb.
A woman stepped out.
Amelia Hart.
Grant stared.
Amelia looked from Grant to Claire.
Then she said quietly:
“Claire, there's something you need to know.”
Grant's face hardened.
“Amelia, don't.”
She ignored him.
“Your husband didn't go to Boston because of me.”
Claire looked at her.
“Then why?”
Amelia swallowed.
“Because of your father.”
Claire went still.
Her father had been dead for three years.
“What about him?”
Amelia looked at Grant.
“Tell her.”
Grant said nothing.
Amelia whispered:
“Her father left something behind.”
Then she got back into the SUV.
Claire stared at Grant.
“What's she talking about?”
Grant looked at his wife.
For the first time, fear replaced frustration in his face.
“Claire…”
“What did my father leave behind?”
May you like
He took a breath.
“Something worth killing for.”
