“Grant hit me.”
Silence.
Then everything about her tone changed.
“When?”
“Twenty minutes ago.”
“Where?”
“His parents’ house.”
“Witnesses?”
“Four relatives. Two employees were in the hall.”
“Visible injury?”
“My cheek is swelling.”
“Any cameras?”
“Yes.”
“How sure?”
“Charles installed a whole-house security system after a jewelry theft last year. Grant showed it to me. Kitchen, foyer, breakfast room, hallways. Audio included.”
Camille exhaled.
“Do not communicate with him. Screenshot everything he sends. Go somewhere safe.”
“I am.”
“Where?”
“Whitmore Strategic Holdings.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“Elena.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.”
“Then say it.”
I watched wet pavement blur beyond the window.
“I’m activating the contingency package.”
Camille swore under her breath.
Three months earlier, she had called that package my nuclear option.
She had asked me three times whether I was certain I wanted it prepared.
I had said yes.
Not because I expected Grant to hit me.
Because I had already learned something far worse.
The Whitmores had never cared that Grant loved me.
They cared about what I owned.
My father had left me something almost nobody outside our attorneys knew about.
Years earlier, he had invested a small inheritance into a regional cold-chain logistics company founded by a former student.
The company grew.
Merged.
Expanded.
By the time my father died, his shares were worth millions.
More importantly, the company controlled specialized refrigerated transportation contracts used by pharmaceutical companies and federal hospitals.
Whitmore Medical Systems desperately needed those routes.
Without them, the Whitmores stood to lose a government supply agreement valued at nearly four hundred million dollars.
I didn’t know any of that when Grant first asked me to dinner.
