Chapter 7 - The Engagement That Never Existed
By sunrise, half of Chicago believed I was engaged.
The other half believed I'd lost my mind.
My father's announcement had spread across gossip sites, local business publications, and social media.
Some headlines called it a romantic merger between two powerful families.
Others repeated the humiliating cat photographs from the gala.
One particularly charming article asked whether Ethan Romano knew his future bride planned to reserve an entire bedroom for seasonal cat bedding.
Nadia read that one aloud while eating a breakfast bagel.
I stared at her.
“Are you enjoying this?”
“Not remotely.”
She took another bite.
“Although the comments are excellent.”
“Please don't tell me.”
“Someone wrote, 'Seventeen litter boxes and a prenup. Chicago romance is alive.'”
I covered my face.
Nadia laughed.
Then her expression softened.
“Grace, we need to release the statement before the market opens.”
I nodded.
Lydia had already prepared a carefully worded correction.
It confirmed that no engagement existed, that I had never consented to one, and that my attorney was addressing unauthorized representations regarding my personal affairs.
It also stated that my professional credentials and ownership interests were matters of verifiable record.
No unnecessary accusations.
No speculation.
Just facts.
But I wanted something stronger.
So I called Ethan.
He answered on the first ring.
“Grace, I swear I didn't know.”
“I believe you.”
He sounded surprised.
“You do?”
“If you'd known, you'd have had enough time to escape the country.”
He gave a nervous laugh.
“Fair.”
“Ethan, I need you to do something.”
“Name it.”
“Release a joint statement denying the engagement.”
He hesitated.
“My father will lose his mind.”
“Mine already has.”
“True.”
I leaned against the kitchen counter.
“And Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“This is your opportunity to stop letting your father decide who you are.”
He was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, “Send me the statement.”
Twenty minutes later, the correction went public.
It was brief.
Clear.
And impossible to misinterpret.
Grace Mercer and Ethan Romano are not engaged, have never been engaged, and have made no plans to marry. Neither authorized the announcement circulated by Charles Mercer.
The internet reacted exactly as expected.
Badly.
Then enthusiastically.
Then with the kind of fascination that usually accompanied celebrity divorces.
Within an hour, somebody had created a meme featuring Gerald in a tuxedo.
The caption read:
ONLY MAN GRACE MERCER TRUSTS.
I saved it.
Nadia watched me.
“You're impossible.”
“Gerald deserves representation.”
At 9:30, Charles Mercer called.
I declined.
At 9:32, he sent a message.
FATHER: You've embarrassed this family.
I stared at the screen.
For nearly thirty years, those words would have made me apologize.
Now they made me angry.
I typed:
ME: You announced an engagement without my consent. You embarrassed yourself.
His reply came immediately.
FATHER: You're making a terrible mistake.
I looked at my mother's photograph.
Then answered:
ME: No. I'm finally correcting one.
I put the phone away.
The preliminary hearing began shortly after eleven.
Lydia had warned me not to expect a dramatic courtroom confession.
This wasn't a criminal trial.
The court was considering whether urgent restrictions were necessary to preserve the trust assets while the disputed authorizations were investigated.
The judge wasn't there to decide who killed my mother.
She wasn't there to determine whether Victor Carbone was a criminal.
She was there to decide whether my inherited property was in immediate danger.
That didn't make the hearing any less terrifying.
My father sat across the courtroom beside his attorney.
He looked exhausted.
His expensive suit hung slightly loose across his shoulders.
Daniel Voss sat behind him, avoiding my eyes.
Victor Carbone wasn't present.
His lawyers were.
Lydia presented the trust provisions.
Marjorie's sworn declaration.
My denial of the signature.
The questionable notarial records.
And the collateral agreement.
The lender's attorney acknowledged the dispute but argued that the company needed financing to continue its redevelopment commitments.
Lydia responded calmly.
“Financial necessity does not transform an unauthorized signature into genuine consent.”
The judge examined the documents.
Then asked a simple question.
“Is there evidence the beneficiary personally signed this acknowledgment?”
The lender's attorney hesitated.
“We relied upon the representation of the trustee and the notarial certificate.”
“That wasn't my question.”
Silence.
My heart hammered.
The judge continued.
“Has the original signature page been produced?”
“Not yet, Your Honor.”
“And the independent co-trustee denies signing?”
“Yes.”
“Then the court has serious concerns.”
I felt Nadia squeeze my hand.
Across the room, my father lowered his head.
The judge asked Lydia about the upcoming trust distribution.
She explained that my thirtieth birthday was less than two weeks away.
The judge looked at the lender's counsel.
“Until these signatures and authorizations can be properly examined, the disputed trust interest is not to be transferred or newly encumbered pursuant to these documents.”
I barely breathed.
A temporary order.
The court also required expedited production of records relevant to the disputed authorization.
There would be further hearings.
Nothing had been finally decided.
But the immediate threat to my shares had been stopped.
For the first time in days, I felt air enter my lungs without pain.
Lydia leaned toward me.
“This is what we needed.”
I nodded.
My eyes burned.
Then I looked across the room.
My father was staring at me.
Not with anger.
With something resembling grief.
I looked away.
I couldn't carry his grief and mine.
Outside the courthouse, reporters waited.
Cameras flashed.
Microphones appeared.
“Miss Mercer, are you suing your father?”
“Were you pressured to marry Ethan Romano?”
“Are the reports about your inheritance accurate?”
“Do you really own seventeen litter boxes?”
Nadia muttered, “I hope Gerald has an attorney.”
I almost smiled.
Then I stepped toward the microphones.
Lydia had advised me to keep my comments brief.
I intended to follow that advice.
Mostly.
“My name is Grace Mercer,” I began.
The cameras shifted toward me.
“I am twenty-nine years old. I own a hospitality consulting company, and I have no plans to marry Ethan Romano.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the reporters.
I continued.
“I have also learned that documents were circulated bearing signatures I did not provide. Those matters are being addressed through appropriate legal channels.”
Someone shouted a question about my father.
I ignored it.
“For years, people have assumed that because I didn't fit their expectations, I wasn't capable of making my own decisions.”
I looked directly into the nearest camera.
“They were wrong.”
Another reporter raised her hand.
“What about the cat photographs?”
I hesitated.
Then smiled.
“The cats are real. They're just not mine.”
Laughter erupted.
I continued.
“I used an intentionally ridiculous persona to discourage unwanted matchmaking. It was immature in some ways, but it wasn't a representation of my professional qualifications. I don't recommend it as a long-term dating strategy.”
Even Lydia smiled.
Then I became serious.
“I do recommend one thing.”
The reporters quieted.
“Never allow anyone to persuade you that you must pretend to be smaller, less capable, or less intelligent to deserve freedom over your own life.”
I thought of my mother.
“And never sign away your future because someone tells you love requires it.”
I stepped away.
For the first time since the gala, I felt the story beginning to belong to me.
Not my father.
Not Carbone.
Me.
Lucas was waiting near the courthouse entrance.
He hadn't entered the hearing.
He'd told me the day belonged to me and my attorney.
Now he stood beside a black sedan, his dark jacket open against the cold.
When he saw me, he smiled.
“Nice speech.”
I folded my arms.
“You watched?”
“Everyone watched.”
“Wonderful.”
“Gerald is becoming a public figure.”
I laughed.
Lucas opened the passenger door.
“Coffee?”
I looked at him.
“Is that an invitation or an order?”
“An invitation.”
“Then yes.”
We went to a small café several blocks away.
No private dining room.
No entourage.
Just two people sitting across from each other with coffee and a slice of chocolate cake I insisted on ordering.
Lucas regarded the cake.
“Breakfast?”
“Emotional support.”
“Kevin would approve.”
I smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“Lucas, what happens now?”
“With the trust?”
“With everything.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
“The injunction gives your attorney time. The investigators will follow the money. Carbone will try to protect himself.”
“And my father?”
“I don't know.”
I stirred my coffee.
“I wanted him to admit everything.”
“He may.”
“I wanted him to be innocent.”
Lucas said nothing.
I looked up.
“Is that ridiculous?”
“No.”
“You don't know what it's like to love someone and discover they've done terrible things.”
His expression changed.
“Actually,” he said quietly, “I do.”
I remembered his father.
The empire he'd inherited.
The crimes he hadn't denied.
I leaned back.
“Tell me.”
Lucas looked toward the window.
“My father built DeLuca Freight from three trucks and a rented warehouse. He was brilliant. Loyal to the people he considered family. Generous when he wanted to be.”
He paused.
“And ruthless when someone stood in his way.”
I listened.
“As a boy, I thought he could fix anything. By twenty, I realized some of the problems he fixed were problems he'd created himself.”
“Why didn't you leave?”
“Because he was my father.”
The answer landed painfully.
Lucas looked at me.
“I spent years convincing myself that if I took control, I could make the organization less dangerous.”
“Did you?”
“In some ways.”
“And in others?”
“I became responsible for what it continued to do.”
I studied him.
He wasn't asking for forgiveness.
He was telling me something he'd probably spent years avoiding.
“Have you ever hurt someone?” I asked.
His jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
“Physically?”
“Yes.”
I looked down.
The answer frightened me.
Not because I hadn't expected it.
Because I had.
Lucas continued.
“Some of those situations involved protecting my people. Some involved decisions I should have handled differently. I'm not going to turn them into heroic stories.”
I looked back at him.
“Then why tell me?”
“Because you deserve to decide whether you want me in your life knowing who I actually am.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I whispered, “I don't know.”
He nodded.
“That's fair.”
I studied his face.
“And if I decide I don't?”
“I'll respect it.”
That answer stayed with me.
My father had never allowed me to say no without turning it into a battle.
Lucas, the most feared man in Chicago, was offering me the freedom to walk away.
It didn't erase his past.
But it mattered.
My phone vibrated.
Lydia.
I answered.
“What's happened?”
Her voice was tense.
“Grace, the federal investigators have requested a formal interview regarding the old Laurel Transport records.”
My heart quickened.
“Did they find something?”
“They obtained a surviving insurance file from your mother's accident. The maintenance documentation contains inconsistencies.”
I gripped my coffee cup.
“What kind?”
“The listed mechanic appears to have been someone who wasn't employed by the company on the date recorded.”
Lucas sat upright.
I stared at him.
“Malcolm Rusk?”
Lydia paused.
“How did you know that name?”
“Lucas found it.”
“Then his information may be important.”
My pulse hammered.
“Can the investigators prove the vehicle was tampered with?”
“Not yet. But they believe the original accident investigation may have relied on false maintenance records.”
I swallowed hard.
For twelve years, I'd believed my mother's death was a terrible accident.
Now there was a legitimate reason for investigators to examine it again.
After the call ended, Lucas studied my face.
“What did Lydia say?”
I told him.
His expression hardened.
“Then we need Keene's testimony preserved.”
“Agreed.”
I looked at him.
“And your records.”
“All of them.”
“Even the freight documents?”
“Yes.”
I studied him.
“You realize they could implicate you.”
“I do.”
“Lucas—”
He reached across the table and placed his hand beside mine.
Not touching.
Waiting.
I looked at it.
Then gently placed my fingers over his.
He exhaled.
For a brief moment, the world felt still.
No reporters.
No forged documents.
No terrible family secrets.
Just his hand beneath mine.
Then his phone rang.
He glanced at the caller.
His expression changed.
“It's Marco.”
He answered.
Listened.
And slowly straightened.
“What do you mean she's missing?”
I felt cold.
Lucas looked directly at me.
“Nadia didn't arrive at her scheduled meeting.”
My heart stopped.
He listened again.
Then said, “Call the police. Now.”
He ended the call.
I stood so quickly my chair scraped the floor.
“What happened?”
Lucas's face was grim.
“Her car was found near a parking garage. Her phone was inside.”
I grabbed my purse.
“Where is she?”
“We don't know.”
My phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Nadia.
Sitting in a chair.
Her hands visible on her lap, her face pale.
Behind her was a concrete wall.
The message beneath the photograph read:
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Your father made one mistake twelve years ago.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Don't make the same mistake with your best friend.
My legs nearly gave way.
Lucas caught my elbow.
I stared at the screen.
Another message arrived.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Withdraw your objections. Stop the investigation. Make the financing possible again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: You have until midnight.
I looked at Lucas.
His expression had gone terrifyingly still.
I knew what men like him usually did when someone threatened a person under their protection.
But I also knew violence could get Nadia killed.
I grabbed his wrist.
“Promise me something.”
“Grace—”
“No. Promise.”
He looked into my eyes.
“We don't start a war.”
A long moment passed.
Then Lucas nodded.
“We get Nadia back.”
“How?”
His voice was low and controlled.
“By bringing in people who can act without giving Carbone an excuse to hurt her.”
He took out his phone.
“And this time, Grace, we make sure the people responsible answer in court.”
I looked at Nadia's photograph.
My best friend.
The woman who'd helped me build my company.
The person who knew every ridiculous cat name I'd invented.
She had been taken because of me.
Because we'd refused to ignore the truth.
I swallowed my terror.
Then I opened my laptop bag.
Lucas looked at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding the one thing Carbone wants badly enough to negotiate for.”
He frowned.
“Grace—”
“Not my inheritance.”
I looked up.
“The money.”
Because Victor Carbone had made one fatal mistake.
He believed the daughter of Charles Mercer was a helpless woman who couldn't understand financial transactions.
May you like
And he had no idea that I'd already found the weakness in the entire redevelopment.
The money he was trying to steal had become the thing that could expose him.
