Chapter 2 - The Townhouse Built for My Replacement
Two days later, Charlotte stood across Perry Street beneath a gray Manhattan sky and watched Sloane Ellery unlock the front door of the townhouse Grant had described as inventory. She was wearing camel trousers, a cream coat, and sunglasses despite the lack of sun. A delivery truck idled at the curb. Two movers carried boxes marked with the logo of a French linen company inside. Charlotte remained in the rear seat of Mara’s car half a block away. “You do understand,” Mara said, “that normal divorcing people hire investigators for this.” “You hired one.” “Yes.” “He’s standing across the street pretending to check his phone.” “Then why are we here?” Charlotte watched another box disappear through the door. “Because sometimes I need to see the thing I’m being asked to believe.” Mara studied her profile. “And?” “I believe it.”
The investigator, Dean Foster, photographed every delivery. Dinner plates were not among them. Those would arrive on Grant’s birthday as Charlotte’s personal contribution. Bedding. Lamps. A vintage champagne bucket. Outdoor furniture. A pair of matching bicycles. Everything about the house said permanence. Sloane was not hiding an affair. She was installing herself. Ten minutes later, Grant arrived. Charlotte felt her stomach twist despite expecting him. He kissed Sloane on the sidewalk. Not quick. Not nervous. Familiar. Sloane laughed against his mouth and took his hand as they went inside. Charlotte looked away. Mara said nothing. Good attorneys knew when silence was more respectful than advice.
Grant returned home that night and told Charlotte he had been touring an Upper East Side property with investors. “How did it go?” she asked. “Exhausting.” “You should rest.” “Maybe after the birthday.” He poured bourbon. “Sloane says we should reposition Westbridge toward lifestyle branding.” Charlotte almost admired his ability to mention his mistress conversationally after spending the afternoon kissing her. “Does Sloane have much experience with lifestyle?” “She understands aspirational buyers.” “Apparently.” Grant looked at her. “You don’t like her.” “Why would you think that?” “Women know.” Charlotte smiled. “Sometimes they do.”
At breakfast the next morning, Grant casually mentioned divorce for the first time. Not theirs. A friend’s. “Ben’s wife is destroying him,” he said. “Trying to claim half his company.” “Was the company marital property?” “Technically partly.” “Then perhaps she owns part.” Grant scoffed. “That’s not how founders think.” “Founders often discover courts don’t care how founders think.” He looked at her carefully. Charlotte spread jam onto toast. “Why are you interested?” he asked. “I’m not.” “You’ve been strange lately.” “Maybe I’m deciding whether forty-two makes you old enough for reading glasses.” Grant smiled, but she saw uncertainty.
Mara’s forensic accountant, Lila Chen, discovered that Westbridge’s misuse extended far beyond Sloane’s lifestyle. The Perry Street renovation account had been used to bury roughly $3.6 million in expenses unrelated to the property. Sloane received $780,000, but hundreds of thousands flowed onward into Northstar, a Palm Beach event company, private travel, and two entities Lila could not yet identify. “What worries me,” Lila said during a conference call, “is not what we can see. It’s the pattern. Someone is disguising distributions as vendor expenses.” “Grant?” Charlotte asked. “His electronic approvals appear on many.” “Appear?” “Digital authorization can be delegated or copied.” Mara added, “We need to distinguish adultery-funded stupidity from broader corporate fraud.”
Charlotte agreed. Emotion wanted one villain. Evidence required precision.
Then Lila found the wedding.
Not merely the registry. The actual contracts.
Grant and Sloane had booked Villa Celeste, a private Palm Beach estate used for weddings, for June 14. Deposit: $165,000. Paid through Westbridge’s “South Florida client development” account. Twenty-two guest rooms were reserved at an oceanfront hotel. Paid by the company. Floral deposit. Company. Photographer. Company. A private charter flight for selected New York guests. Company.
“They’re billing their wedding as investor entertainment,” Mara said.
Charlotte felt strangely calm. “Who are the guests?”
“We’re trying to get the list.”
“I want it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to know who believes I’ll be gone by June.”
Mara hesitated. “Charlotte, we found something about Northstar.”
Charlotte leaned forward.
The $240,000 payment was not for fertility treatment alone. Northstar had arranged legal consultation regarding embryo creation and gestational services. Sloane had undergone an egg retrieval. Grant had provided genetic material. Embryos had been created.
Charlotte closed her eyes.
“Is she pregnant?”
“Not according to what we have. One embryo transfer is scheduled for July.”
After the wedding.
The pain arrived unexpectedly. Charlotte and Grant had tried to have children for three years. Two miscarriages. One failed IVF cycle. Eventually Charlotte stopped because another round felt unbearable. Grant told her he understood. “We have each other,” he had whispered one night while she cried into his chest. Apparently he had not meant it.
Mara knew enough of Charlotte’s history to understand. “I’m sorry.”
Charlotte took several breaths. “Did company money pay for this?”
“Some of it.”
“Then document every dollar.”
“Charlotte—”
“Every dollar.”
She ended the call and went into the bathroom before she cried.
Grant came home early and found her washing her face.
“You okay?”
“Yes.”
“You look like you’ve been crying.”
“Migraine.”
He touched her shoulder.
She nearly recoiled but forced herself still.
“Want me to cancel dinner?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He kissed the top of her head.
The tenderness was devastating because it was familiar.
That evening they attended dinner with Grant’s parents, Evelyn and Richard West, at a private club. Grant’s mother adored social propriety and had spent years reminding Charlotte that “West women do not air discomfort.” Charlotte wondered whether Evelyn knew. At dessert, Evelyn said, “Grant tells me you’ve been busy with the Meridian Crown party.” “Very.” “Forty-two,” Richard joked. “Next thing you know, he’ll be remarrying in Florida like every other midlife cliché.”
Grant dropped his spoon.
Charlotte looked at him.
Richard laughed. “Relax. Joke.”
Evelyn’s face had gone tight.
Charlotte noticed.
Interesting.
After dinner, she followed Evelyn into the powder room. “Do you know Sloane Ellery?”
Evelyn froze for half a second.
“Yes. Westbridge consultant.”
“Only that?”
Evelyn looked at her reflection. “Charlotte, if you’re asking me something, ask it directly.”
“Is your son having an affair?”
Silence.
Too long.
Charlotte’s heart sank.
“You knew.”
“I suspected.”
“How long?”
“I saw them together in Palm Beach in January.”
January. Two months ago.
“You said nothing.”
“I confronted Grant.”
“And he told you?”
“That it was ending.”
Charlotte laughed quietly.
“What?”
“He’s marrying her June 14.”
Evelyn turned pale.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re still married.”
“Excellent observation.”
Evelyn gripped the marble counter. “He told me she was a mistake.”
“She has a wedding registry.”
Evelyn closed her eyes.
“And a townhouse,” Charlotte added. “And fertility arrangements.”
Evelyn’s eyes snapped open.
“What?”
Charlotte watched the older woman absorb it.
Then Evelyn whispered, “He’s become his father.”
Charlotte frowned.
Richard had always seemed boringly loyal.
“What does that mean?”
Evelyn stared toward the door.
“Nothing.”
“No. What does it mean?”
“Not here.”
Charlotte stepped closer. “You lost the right to decide where when you knew your son was betraying me and stayed quiet.”
Evelyn’s eyes filled.
“Richard had another family before Grant was born.”
Charlotte stared.
“He what?”
“Not legally another wife. A woman. A child.”
“Grant has a half-sibling?”
Evelyn nodded.
“Does he know?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Evelyn looked terrified.
“Charlotte, please.”
“Who?”
“Sloane.”
For several seconds Charlotte did not understand the word.
Then horror hit.
“No.”
Evelyn grabbed her arm. “Not biologically. God, no. Sloane is not Richard’s daughter.”
Charlotte exhaled sharply.
“Then what are you saying?”
Evelyn swallowed.
“Sloane’s mother was Richard’s mistress.”
Charlotte stared at her.
“And Grant knows?”
“I don’t know how much Sloane has told him.”
The bathroom seemed suddenly too small.
Sloane had entered Grant’s life carrying history the younger couple might not fully understand.
Charlotte asked, “What was her mother’s name?”
“Victoria Ellery.”
May you like
Charlotte had never heard it.
Evelyn whispered, “And if Sloane is doing what I think she’s doing, this may not be about love at all.”
