Chapter 4 - THE CHILD ALEXANDER NEVER KNEW ABOUT“I don't have a son.”
Alexander said it immediately.
Not defensively.
Not angrily.
Like a man stating something physically impossible.
Caroline remained on speaker.
“The agreement says otherwise.”
“I've never met Natalie Pierce.”
“You signed no settlement?”
“No.”
“Your mother?”
Alexander stared at the paperwork.
“Apparently.”
I folded my arms.
“Could the child be yours?”
His eyes snapped toward me.
“Erin.”
“I'm asking a factual question.”
He stood.
“I have never slept with anyone named Natalie Pierce.”
“Good.”
Then I thought again.
“Could she have used another name?”
His expression became furious.
Not at me.
At the situation.
“I have not fathered a child.”
Caroline interrupted.
“We need evidence before making assumptions.”
Within twenty-four hours, we found Natalie.
She lived in Connecticut.
She agreed to meet only after Caroline assured her we were not representing Eleanor.
Natalie was thirty-five.
Her son, Caleb, was seven.
She brought a thick envelope.
“I never said Alexander was the father.”
I stared.
“Then why does the settlement say you did?”
Natalie looked disgusted.
“Because Eleanor Grant needed a reason for the payment.”
The truth was stranger.
Natalie had worked as executive assistant to Richard Grant.
Alexander's father.
Richard had been married to Eleanor for forty-one years.
He had also been having an affair with Natalie for nearly a decade.
Caleb was Richard's son.
Alexander's half-brother.
When Eleanor discovered the relationship, she did not confront her husband publicly.
She paid Natalie to disappear.
But using personal money would have required explanations in the Grant family trust.
So she routed money through the fraudulent Vale Design company.
My identity had been used to hide her husband's affair.
I actually laughed when I understood.
Not because it was funny.
Because sometimes humiliation reaches a point where your body has no appropriate response.
Alexander sat frozen.
“My father has a seven-year-old son.”
Natalie nodded.
“He knows.”
“And abandoned him?”
“He pays secretly.”
Alexander looked sick.
I realized then that he had spent his life idealizing his grandfather because his parents had taught him nothing about healthy love.
It didn't excuse him.
But it explained some things.
Natalie produced messages from Richard.
Bank transfers.
Photographs.
DNA results.
Everything.
“Why come forward now?” I asked.
“Because Eleanor stopped paying the school tuition after your spending spree.”
I blinked.
“What?”
Natalie almost smiled.
“Apparently thirty-seven black-card charges caused some family financial review. Someone started asking questions.”
Alexander looked at me.
I looked at him.
That black card had become remarkably productive.
The Grant family crisis exploded.
Richard denied everything for twelve hours.
Then Alexander confronted him with DNA results.
He confessed.
Eleanor blamed Natalie.
Natalie released evidence to Caroline.
Caroline discovered four more shell entities Eleanor had used.
My divorce case became intertwined with potential federal financial investigations.
And Alexander moved out of our penthouse.
Not because I asked.
He told me:
“I don't want to stay in the house while you're deciding what you want.”
That was the first truly respectful thing he had done in weeks.
I signed the lease for Erin Vale Interiors.
The loft needed work.
For the first time in years, I felt alive.
I designed everything myself.
Natural oak.
Warm plaster walls.
Large communal tables.
A red sofa solely because Alexander would have hated it.
Three former colleagues agreed to join me.
My first client was a boutique hotel renovation in SoHo.
My second came through Sophia.
That amused both of us.
“I suppose stealing your husband didn't work out, so I'm sending business instead.”
I laughed.
“You are terrible at home-wrecking.”
“Apparently.”
Sophia and I became something neither expected.
Not exactly friends at first.
More like women who had survived the same family using different weapons.
Alexander knew.
He hated the irony.
He never complained.
Weeks passed.
He sent no gifts.
That surprised me.
Old Alexander would have sent jewelry.
Flowers.
Trips.
Instead, one afternoon, a package arrived at my office.
Inside was my old drafting pencil set.
I had left it in the penthouse years earlier.
There was one note.
These were always yours.
No apology.
No request.
No pressure.
I cried anyway.
The divorce moved forward.
Alexander did not contest separation.
But he refused to sign the final agreement immediately.
Caroline warned me.
“He may fight.”
“He won't.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
That was the problem.
I had spent two years believing I knew him.
Now I was trying to judge the man he might become.
One evening he appeared at my studio after everyone left.
He stood near the red sofa.
“I see you bought revenge furniture.”
“I like it.”
“That's worse.”
I almost smiled.
He handed me a folder.
“What is this?”
“Your financial records.”
“My what?”
“Every account associated with your name. Every shell company. Every transaction my mother made.”
“You investigated her?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she used you.”
“So did you.”
He nodded.
“Yes.”
No defensiveness.
That was new.
“I also terminated her authority at Grant Capital.”
I stared.
“She's your mother.”
“She committed fraud.”
“You've known that for weeks.”
“I needed proof.”
“And your father?”
“On leave from the board.”
The Grant dynasty was collapsing from inside.
I should have felt triumphant.
I didn't.
“What do you want from me, Alexander?”
“Nothing.”
“That isn't true.”
He looked around my studio.
“I wanted to see what you built.”
“Why?”
“Because I realized I have never seen anything that was yours.”
That hurt more than an accusation would have.
I sat on the edge of a desk.
“You never asked.”
“I know.”
He walked toward one of my concept boards.
“This hotel.”
“Yes.”
“You designed it?”
“Yes.”
“It feels…”
He stopped.
“What?”
“Warm.”
I laughed softly.
“The ultimate architectural review.”
He looked at me.
“I've spent my entire life making buildings expensive.”
His eyes moved across the room.
“You make them feel like people should stay.”
For once, Alexander saw something about me.
Two years too late.
Or maybe just late.
My phone vibrated.
Caroline.
I answered.
Her first words erased the quiet moment.
“Erin, don't sign anything Alexander's mother sends you.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good, because she just filed suit against you.”
“For what?”
Caroline almost laughed.
“Misuse of marital assets.”
I stared at Alexander.
“The black card?”
“Yes.”
“Thirty-seven charges?”
“Yes.”
Alexander heard.
His expression hardened.
Caroline continued.
“She claims your purchases were intentionally fraudulent and wants repayment.”
I looked toward my red coat hanging by the door.
Then I smiled.
For the first time in weeks, I genuinely looked forward to seeing Eleanor Grant.
“Perfect.”
Alexander frowned.
“Why perfect?”
“Because your mother wants to discuss the thirty-seven charges.”
May you like
I picked up my coat.
“Let's make sure she learns what number thirty-eight costs.”
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