Chapter 4 - The Currency of Regret
The winter of 2026 arrived with a bitter, biting cold that turned the bay into a slate-gray sheet of ice. The Northstar Medical shares had stabilized, rising fourteen percent after the opening of the Eleanor Grant Center. The public loved a redemption story, especially one where the villain was decisively excised and the company’s foundation was rebuilt on transparency.
I was sitting in my corner office—the one Vanessa had demanded the day she tried to evict me—when my secretary announced an unscheduled visitor.
"He doesn't have an appointment, Ms. Grant," she said over the intercom, her voice laced with hesitation. "But he says it’s regarding the civil deposition next week. It’s Adrian."
I stared at the glass door of my office. Through the frosted pane, I could see a silhouette.
"Send him in," I said. "And call security. Tell them to stay outside the door."
Adrian walked in. He looked worse than he had at the clinic opening. His shoes were salt-stained, and his skin had a sallow, gray tint that suggested a diet of processed food and sleepless nights. He didn't sit down. He stood in the center of the room, looking around at the white minimalist decor that had replaced his mahogany dreams.
"You gave them the text logs," he said. His voice wasn't angry; it was exhausted. "The federal prosecutor called my public defender this morning. They’re talking about a five-year sentence for criminal negligence and accessory to wire fraud."
"The corporate defense team required the logs to protect Northstar from Julianne Bell's lawsuit," I said, my voice flat. "I owe my shareholders a duty of care. I owe you nothing."
"I didn't know what was in those folders, Claire!" he burst out, his hands clenching into fists. "You know how I am with spreadsheets. You know I always hated the numbers. Vanessa told me it was just a restructuring plan for the medical supplies division. I trusted her!"
"You trusted her because she slept with you and told you that you were a king," I said, leaning back in my chair. "You trusted her because she didn't ask you to work for your authority. I asked you to be a real executive. I asked you to learn the business. I wanted a partner, Adrian. You wanted a cheerleader who would let you steal from my grandfather's legacy."
Adrian took a step closer to the desk, but stopped when he saw the shadow of the security guard through the glass door.
"Five years," he whispered. "In a federal penitentiary. I won't survive it, Claire. You know what I'm like. I have health issues. The cancer... the follow-up checks..."
"Your oncology reports have been clear for six years, Adrian. I know because I paid the insurance premiums until last November."
"Please," he said, and for the first time in our entire relationship, he dropped to his knees. It was a pathetic, theatrical gesture, but the terror in his eyes was real. "Talk to the prosecutor. Tell them it was my mistake. Tell them I'm stupid, not criminal. They’ll listen to you. The Grant name means everything in this city."
I looked down at him from across the desk. This was the man who, at our eighth-anniversary dinner, had raised a glass of champagne and toasted my failure as a woman in front of twenty people. This was the man who had watched me weep in hospital gowns after hormone treatments, holding my hand while secretly knowing—or rather, his mother knowing—that the defect was his.
"When I was recovering from the third laparoscopy," I said softly, the memory vivid and sharp in the quiet office, "I had an infection. I was running a hundred and three degree fever. You left the house because you said the sound of my groaning was giving you anxiety. You went to a bar with Marcus."
Adrian swallowed, his head bowed. "I was scared. I didn't know how to handle it."
"No," I said. "You didn't want to handle it. You wanted the perks of a wife without the inconvenience of her humanity. You wanted a family without the vulnerability of creation. You wanted my grandfather’s company without the labor of governance."
I stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked out over the city.
"I won't lie for you, Adrian. I spent eight years living a lie to protect your pride. I will not spend another minute of my life contaminating the truth for your comfort. If the law says you belong in a cell for signing those documents, then that is where you will go."
Behind me, I heard him pull himself up from the floor. The weakness in him turned, predictably, into a thin, venomous spite.
"You're a monster," he spat, his voice shaking. "You're cold. You always were. That’s why I went to Vanessa. She was warm. She was a real woman."
I didn't turn around. "Vanessa is currently serving eight years in a maximum-security facility, and her children are in state custody because their biological father is also a felon. If that is your definition of a 'real woman,' Adrian, then you are welcome to her."
The door opened. The security guard stepped into the room, his hand significantly placed near his belt.
May you like
"Mr. Grant," the guard said. "It's time to leave."
Adrian stared at my back for a long moment. I could see his reflection in the glass—small, bitter, and entirely spent. Then, his footsteps shuffled out of the room, and the heavy door clicked shut behind him.
