Chapter 8 - THE EIGHTEEN MILLION WAR
Grant did exactly what Lydia expected.
He called his attorneys.
Not Peter Royce.
Peter represented the family trust and had already made it clear that his loyalty belonged to documents, not Grant’s pride.
Grant called the divorce team.
Three partners.
One forensic accountant.
One litigation strategist.
By noon, they were gathered in the conference room of Whitfield Capital.
Grant sat at the head of the table.
He had not slept.
His shirt was immaculate.
His face was not.
“I want the settlement reviewed.”
His attorney, Malcolm Price, folded his hands.
“On what grounds?”
“Fraud.”
“By Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
Malcolm did not react.
“What did she misrepresent?”
“She knew there were questions about the twins.”
“When?”
“Before she left.”
“How do you know?”
Grant said nothing.
Malcolm waited.
Grant hated being forced to fill silence.
“She had my genetic report.”
“That concerns your fertility.”
“Yes.”
“Not the twins’ paternity.”
“She knew Sienna had undergone fertility treatment.”
“When did she learn that?”
Grant’s jaw tightened.
“I don’t know.”
“Before or after settlement execution?”
“I said I don’t know.”
Malcolm leaned back.
“Then we do not have fraud.”
“She took eighteen million dollars while withholding material information.”
“What information was she obligated to disclose?”
“The possibility that my children weren’t mine.”
“Were the children part of the settlement?”
“No.”
“Was payment conditioned on biological paternity?”
“No.”
“Did Eleanor represent that they were biologically yours?”
“No.”
“Then legally.”
“Stop.”
The room became quiet.
Malcolm stopped.
Grant stared at the windows.
Below them, Manhattan moved normally.
That offended him.
His life was disintegrating.
Traffic still flowed.
Markets still opened.
People still bought coffee.
He understood now what Eleanor must have felt in the steakhouse.
The realization made him angrier.
“I want leverage.”
Malcolm’s expression cooled.
“Against your former wife?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Grant turned.
“Excuse me?”
“You have a paternity crisis.”
“A potential custody dispute.”
“A woman in your home who admits she deceived you.”
“And you are asking me to find leverage against Eleanor.”
Malcolm paused.
“Why?”
Grant did not answer.
Because Eleanor had left too calmly.
Because she had known something he did not.
Because she was living near the Pacific while he stood in a nursery unable to understand what his name meant anymore.
Because some ugly part of him needed someone else to lose.
Malcolm continued.
“I can review the settlement.”
“I can challenge it if grounds exist.”
“But I will not invent grounds.”
Grant’s eyes narrowed.
“You sound like Lydia Chen.”
“I’ll survive the insult.”
One attorney hid a smile.
Grant stood.
“Review everything.”
He left.
Across town, Lydia sat opposite me in her office.
“You were right,” I said.
“I usually am.”
“Unbearable quality.”
“It’s expensive for a reason.”
She showed me the letter from Grant’s counsel requesting information regarding when I first learned of Sienna’s fertility treatment.
“They’re fishing.”
“What do we do?”
“Answer narrowly.”
“Truthfully.”
“Always.”
“Which will make them unhappy.”
“Frequently.”
I looked at the letter.
“Why does he want the money back?”
“He may not.”
“Then why this?”
“Control.”
That word felt familiar.
Lydia tapped the paper.
“Grant is experiencing something he cannot purchase his way out of.”
“He is searching for a transaction.”
“And I’m the transaction.”
“You were for ten years.”
I looked at her.
She softened.
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
“It’s true.”
I pushed the letter away.
“Give them the timeline.”
“Everything?”
“Everything we can document.”
“Your first knowledge of the photo.”
“Rachel’s contact.”
“The recording.”
Lydia lifted an eyebrow.
“The recording is Rachel’s.”
“Then not that.”
“Good.”
“What about Dr. Lawson’s report?”
“Only if necessary.”
Lydia smiled.
“You are learning.”
“I hate that sentence.”
A knock interrupted us.
Her assistant entered.
“Owen Mercer is here.”
I stood.
“Here?”
“He has an appointment with Ms. Chen.”
I looked at Lydia.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“I didn’t know you would still be here.”
That was technically true.
I should have left.
I didn’t.
Owen entered a minute later.
He was taller than I expected.
Dark hair.
A tired face.
Blue-gray eyes.
He looked like someone who had not slept in several days.
He stopped when he saw me.
“Eleanor.”
“Owen.”
For a moment we simply looked at each other.
Two people connected through the same lie from opposite sides.
Then he crossed the room and held out his hand.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“Answering the phone.”
I shook his hand.
“You would have found out.”
“Maybe.”
“Not from her.”
No.
Probably not.
Lydia invited him to sit.
His attorney joined by video.
The conversation stayed careful.
No one accused.
No one speculated.
Owen had medical documentation establishing that embryos created with his genetic material and Sienna’s had been transferred.
He had messages from Sienna around the same period.
He had a signed treatment plan.
What he did not have was proof those embryos became Nathan and Ava.
Not yet.
“I submitted DNA this morning,” he said.
“Where?”
“The same independent laboratory Peter Royce used.”
My heart tightened.
“When will you know?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
Silence.
Owen looked down.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to hope.”
I understood.
If the twins were his, Sienna had stolen almost a year of truth from him.
If they were not, then the embryos he mourned really had been lost.
Either result contained grief.
“What do you want?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“If they’re mine?”
“Yes.”
“To know them.”
“Custody?”
“I don’t know.”
“Take them from Sienna?”
His expression changed immediately.
“No.”
That mattered.
“She lied to me.”
“She lied to Grant.”
“She may have done terrible things.”
He rubbed his hands together.
“But those babies know her voice.”
“She is their mother.”
“I am not walking into their lives to punish her.”
I thought about Grant.
About his instinct to fight.
About Owen’s instinct to pause.
Maybe biology had less to do with fatherhood than Grant had ever understood.
Owen continued.
“I want legal recognition.”
“I want to know whether they’re healthy.”
“I want to hold them.”
His voice cracked slightly.
“I want to know if Ava makes the face my mother says I made when I was a baby.”
I looked away.
Lydia handed him a tissue without comment.
He laughed embarrassedly.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize in a lawyer’s office.”
Lydia said.
“We bill for emotion.”
He laughed.
The tension broke.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Unknown number.
He declined it.
It rang again.
He frowned.
Third time.
He answered.
“Hello?”
His face changed.
I watched.
“Yes.”
Pause.
“Yes, this is Owen.”
Longer pause.
His eyes moved toward me.
“No.”
Another pause.
“How did you get my number?”
His expression hardened.
“No.”
He stood.
“Do not threaten me.”
Lydia immediately started writing.
Owen listened.
Then the call ended.
“Who was it?”
I asked.
He stared at the phone.
“I don’t know.”
“What did they say?”
Owen looked at us.
“They told me to withdraw the paternity petition.”
My stomach tightened.
“Or?”
He swallowed.
“Or information about my company would be sent to every contractor I’ve ever worked with.”
Lydia’s voice sharpened.
“What information?”
“Nothing real.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then preserve the call log.”
“I will.”
“Do not answer again.”
Owen sat back down.
“Was it Grant?”
I asked.
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Grant doesn’t sound like that.”
“Maybe someone working for him.”
Lydia shook her head.
“We do not guess.”
Again.
Facts.
Always facts.
But the call changed the room.
Someone wanted Owen gone.
That someone knew about the filing almost immediately.
Only a small number of people knew.
Owen.
His attorney.
Lydia.
Me.
Peter Royce.
Margaret.
Grant.
And Sienna.
That evening I returned to my hotel.
Grant called.
I answered this time.
“What do you want?”
“I heard Owen met with Lydia.”
Of course he had.
“Why are you tracking my attorney’s office?”
“I’m not.”
“Then how do you know?”
He ignored the question.
“Did you meet him?”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“What’s he like?”
The question surprised me.
“Why?”
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Eleanor.”
“He’s a person.”
“I know he’s a person.”
“Do you?”
That landed.
Grant exhaled.
“Does he want custody?”
“He wants the truth.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“And I’m no longer your source of information.”
Grant went quiet.
Then he said, “Nathan has reflux.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“He cries after feeding.”
I did not know why he was telling me this.
“Ava sleeps better.”
“Grant.”
“I held them every night.”
His voice changed.
“They know me.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“I know.”
“What happens if Owen is their father?”
“That’s for lawyers and parents to decide.”
“I’m on their birth certificates.”
“Grant.”
“What?”
“You called me because you’re afraid.”
Silence.
“I’m not afraid.”
“Then hang up.”
He didn’t.
I closed my eyes.
For ten years, Grant had refused to let me see him vulnerable.
Now vulnerability was forcing its way out because every other defense had failed.
“I love them,” he said.
The sentence was barely audible.
I felt something inside me soften despite everything.
“I believe you.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell Owen.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because loving them doesn’t make him disappear.”
Grant’s breathing became uneven.
“I don’t know how to do this.”
There it was.
The first honest sentence he had given me in years.
“Then start by not turning it into a war.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You think I should just hand them over?”
“I think you should stop talking about babies like property.”
Silence.
Then he whispered, “You would have been a good mother.”
My eyes filled instantly.
It was the cruelest kind thing he could have said.
Because he should have said it years ago.
Because he should have believed it while I still needed him to.
Because now it was worthless.
“Goodnight, Grant.”
“Eleanor.”
I ended the call.
Forty-eight hours later, Owen’s DNA result arrived.
Lydia called me.
I did not answer immediately.
I knew before she spoke.
Maybe because every piece had already fallen into place.
Maybe because truth developed its own gravity.
“Is he the father?”
I asked.
“Yes.”
The word settled heavily.
“Nathan and Ava are genetically his.”
I closed my eyes.
“It’s confirmed?”
“99.99 percent probability.”
I sat silently.
Then Lydia added, “There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“Owen’s lawyer received a copy of the original fertility clinic notes.”
“And?”
“One entry references a third person.”
My skin prickled.
“Who?”
“A private meeting between Sienna and someone using the initials C.W.”
Charles Whitfield.
The date was four days after Sienna’s positive pregnancy test.
I stood.
“What did the note say?”
Lydia’s voice lowered.
“Only one sentence.”
“What sentence?”
“Patient states family matter will be handled privately through C.W.”
My heart pounded.
Charles had known.
Before Grant knew about the pregnancy.
Before Eleanor Whitfield had been replaced.
Before two babies were presented as heirs.
Charles had known something.
And he had chosen silence.
But now Charles was dead.
There was only one person left who might know what he had been protecting.
Margaret.
When I called her, she did not sound surprised.
“I wondered when that note would surface.”
“You knew about it?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what Charles knew.”
Silence.
“Margaret.”
“I will.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“Because Grant is coming.”
My stomach tightened.
“To your house?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
May you like
Margaret’s voice became tired.
“I am going to tell him the secret Charles spent thirty-eight years protecting.”
