THE MAN WHO CREATED MY NIGHTMARE

Grant opened his mouth soundlessly.

Agents flanked him.

Dozens of workers watched across the plaza.

My husband seemed aware only of me.

“Leah,” he whispered, “whatever he told you—”

“He gave investigators the payment records.”

“He’s lying.”

“And the audio recordings.”

Grant swallowed.

I continued.

“The first payment came from an account connected to your old business. The later ones were routed through Atlantic Fleet Services.”

His eyes widened.

“That’s impossible.”

“Apparently, not impossible enough.”

He shook his head repeatedly.

“You don’t understand.”

“Then explain it.”

A familiar look briefly crossed his face.

Calculation.

His contract-negotiating expression.

When deceiving investors.

When persuading me his cruelty benefited our future.

“The accident wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” he whispered.

Cold swept through me.

He recognized his slip.

His face contorted.

“Wait. That’s not what I meant.”

I stared at him.

“What was supposed to happen, Grant?”

“Leah, please.”

“Was the truck supposed to frighten me? Was it supposed to force me off the road? Or were you hoping I’d be seriously injured?”

He looked toward the agents.

Then back at me.

“I was supposed to be there before anyone else.”

The words hit harder than shouting.

He’d orchestrated it.

Not only the crash.

The rescue.

The moment that convinced me he was extraordinarily brave.

“You wanted to be my hero,” I said.

Grant’s eyes watered.

“I loved you.”

“No.”

“I did!”

“You loved what you thought I could give you.”

He shook his head fiercely.

“That’s not fair!”

I eyed the faded scar across his hand.

For seven years, I considered it proof of love.

Now it exposed an elaborate stunt gone catastrophically wrong.

“You could have killed me.”

His mouth quivered.

“I didn’t want you dead.”

“You hired someone to drive a truck into my car.”

“I didn’t think it would be that bad!”

His voice rose.

“I thought I’d pull you out, you’d see how much I cared, and everything would work out!”

The lead agent instructed Grant to stop talking and reminded him of his right to silence.

Grant finally stopped.

He’d already shattered my last illusion about the marriage.

I leaned against the leather seat.

There was no satisfaction.

No rush of triumph.

Only grief.

The husband I imagined had never existed.

He was a fabrication.

I’d funded his creator’s life for seven years.

Grant stared at me through the open window.

“Leah, please don’t leave me like this.”

I eyed him.

“Like what?”

“Alone.”

I recalled nights spent awaiting his return.

The dinners that went cold.

The anniversaries he forgot.

His unanswered messages during weekends with Sloane.

“You’ve been leaving me alone for years,” I said.

His face crumpled.

“Just help me one last time.”

I shook my head.

“No.”

“Please!”

“Your attorneys can deal with the charges. The court can decide what happens to your assets.”

“And the company?”

“I’m going to do what I can for the employees.”

Hope flashed across his face.

“So you’ll save Rowan Works?”

“Not for you.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“If any part of the business survives, it will survive without you.”

Grant stared at me.

“You can’t take my company.”

I almost laughed.

After everything, he still feared losing ownership most.

“Grant, you tried to give away my thirty-two percent this morning. You don’t get to lecture me about taking what belongs to someone else.”

He attempted to reply.

I shut the window.

The agent led him to the waiting vehicle.

For the first time after we met, I ignored him calling after me.

I thought it finished.

Another disturbance erupted at the entrance.

Two agents brought Sloane outside.

Her immaculate blond hair hung loose around her face.

She was crying.

Her hands were cuffed.

The complaint alleged she knowingly submitted false lender certifications and received concealed payments via a Grant-linked consultancy.

She saw Grant.

The scene shifted.

“YOU PROMISED ME!”

Her shriek pierced the plaza.

Grant turned.

Sloane resisted the agents.

“You said the company was going public! You said we’d be rich!”

“Sloane, stop talking!”

“You told me the invoices were fine!”

“Sloane!”

“You forged the figures and made me approve them!”

Grant turned scarlet.

“Shut your mouth!”

Her sobbing intensified.

“You ruined my life!”

I observed them through the glass.

That morning, she smiled from my chair while my husband tried to erase me.

Now she looked at him only to accuse him.

Triumph eluded me.

The ugliness exhausted me.

My phone rang once more.

Naomi.

“The board has voted to place Grant on administrative leave,” she said. “They’re discussing an independent restructuring process.”

“Good.”

“His attorneys are already trying to contact your representatives.”

“Everything goes through June.”

“Understood.”

I observed workers gathering outside.

“Have we identified the facilities that can continue operating?”

“Two manufacturing sites and the distribution division appear viable. We’re reviewing the contracts.”

“And payroll?”

“We’re arranging a proposal for emergency financing, subject to the appropriate approvals.”

I shut my eyes.

“Thank you.”

Naomi paused.

“Leah, you should come to the family office.”

“Why?”

“There’s something your father left that I think you’re finally ready to see.”

My chest tightened.

“What is it?”

“A letter.”

Dad’s voice had been absent nearly nine years.

Yet Naomi said he had left an unread message.

“Why didn’t anyone give it to me before?”

“Because he gave instructions about when it should be opened.”

“When?”

Naomi paused.

“When you finally decided to come home.”

I observed federal vehicles depart.

For seven years, my life revolved around a man pursuing my family fortune.

Now I longed for the father I’d spent years pretending I didn’t need.

“Take me there,” I told the driver.

As Charlotte receded, I slipped off my wedding ring.