Part 4
Grant remained where the nurse had left him until somebody directed him to a waiting area. He sat, stood, checked the time, and put the phone away without learning anything from it.
A cleaner moved slowly around a vending machine. Somewhere down the corridor, a cart wheel squeaked at every turn. Grant began recognizing the sound each time it approached and hating the moment it passed without stopping.
He had negotiated through nights when hundreds of millions of dollars were at risk. He had never understood how little money could do while a person waited for a doctor.
Nearly three hours passed before one came looking for him.
“Claire has asked us to speak with you,” she said. “She’s stable. So is the baby.”
Grant rested one hand against the back of a chair.
The doctor explained that Claire had experienced premature contractions. There had been a brief change in the fetal heart rate, but monitoring was reassuring now. Exhaustion, dehydration, and sustained stress could all contribute; they would continue assessing her rather than assume a single cause.
“She needs to recover,” the doctor said. “Regular meals, fluids, sleep, and less strain. We’ll give her clear instructions and follow her closely.”
“Can I see her?”
“Yes. Keep the visit calm.”
Claire was awake when he entered. An intravenous line ran beneath the blanket, and she watched him come around the bed with an expression he could not bear to misread.
“You didn’t go home.”
He pulled up a chair. “You asked me to stay.”
Her eyes moved toward the monitor.
“The doctor says your boy’s doing well,” he told her.
Claire covered her mouth. For several breaths she could not speak, and Grant waited with his hand resting near hers rather than taking it.
Finally she reached for him.
“I thought if Adrian found out, he’d say I couldn’t look after myself. That he should decide everything.”
“He doesn’t get to turn a hospital visit into permission to control you.”
“I didn’t want anybody calling him.”
“Then make sure the staff knows your wishes. I’ll help you do that.”
She nodded and wiped beneath her eyes with the edge of a tissue.
After a while, she said, “This is more than I had any right to ask you to deal with.”
Grant looked down at their joined hands. “I’d rather you woke me than tried to get through that hallway alone.”
Her mouth trembled. “I was afraid to make a fuss.”
He could not answer immediately.
When she asked about the company, he gave her only what she wanted to know. Adrian’s suspension had become public the previous afternoon. The company’s investors were demanding explanations. Vanessa was already making it clear that she did not intend to stand beside him.
“What happens now?” Claire asked.
“Investigators do their work. Lawyers do theirs.”
“And Adrian?”
“He’ll have to answer for decisions he’s been making for years.”
She stared toward the window, where the first gray of morning had begun to show.
Grant lowered his voice. “You don’t need to decide anything about him from this bed. When you’re ready, we’ll make sure you have advice that serves you. Then you choose what comes next.”
Claire closed her eyes. Her fingers remained around his hand until she fell asleep.
For the next two weeks, she followed the doctor’s instructions with a seriousness she had never applied to her own comfort before. She rested, ate properly, attended follow-up visits, and learned that not every quiet afternoon had to end with somebody angry.
By the time she was cleared for a gradual return to work, the Harborline plans were spread across the apartment table. She had filled their margins with questions.
In front of the Hollis offices on her first morning, she adjusted the strap of her bag and looked up at the glass building. The wind off the lake caught the hem of her coat.
Grant stood by the car without hurrying her.
“We can do this another day,” he said.
“I’ve had too many days when I told myself that.” She took a breath. “I’d like to go in.”
The lobby smelled faintly of stone cleaner and fresh coffee. A security desk stood beneath a suspended sculpture, and people crossed the floor carrying sample cases and rolled plans.
Claire had spent years entering places like this as someone’s guest. This time, a temporary badge waited in her own name.
On the design floor, Grant introduced her as Claire Bennett, the consultant joining the Harborline team. Hearing her maiden name in a business introduction steadied her more than she expected.
A senior designer came around the table to shake her hand.
“You worked on the Beacon Court Hotel, didn’t you? Those lounge concepts were yours.”
Claire hesitated. “I was part of the team.”
“I remember the early drawings. You solved an awkward room.”
Adrian had once told her nobody remembered who drew what, only whose name appeared on the finished project. She set her notebook down and opened it.
The meeting moved quickly. There were decisions about circulation, acoustics, lighting near the lake-facing windows. Claire listened, then asked why a reception desk blocked the clearest route to the elevators.
The project manager turned the plan around.
“Show us what you’re thinking.”
She did. Nobody talked over her. A suggestion about seating became a discussion, then a note on the revision list. By the time they finished, she had forgotten to be careful about how much interest she showed.
When the team dispersed, Grant stayed beside the table.
“I thought I might be sick before we came in,” she admitted.
“I couldn’t tell.”
“I could.”
He smiled. “They want the revised sketch by Friday. That usually means a meeting went well.”
Claire laughed, and the sound surprised her.
At the windows overlooking the park, she stopped to look at the bare trees and the pale line of the lake beyond. She still had a difficult pregnancy, an uncertain marriage to untangle, and a husband under investigation. None of that had kept her from being useful in that room.
“Thank you for asking me,” she said.
Grant slipped his hands into his pockets. “I had a project that needed you.”
Adrian spent that same evening reading alerts about himself in a temporary office his lawyer had arranged for meetings. By the time he returned to the penthouse, he was tired enough to leave his coat on the floor.
A wineglass clicked against the kitchen counter.
Vanessa stood there in a dark dress, using the key he had once insisted she keep. Her coat and purse lay on a stool where Claire used to set groceries.
“You look terrible,” she said.
“Get your things.”
She glanced at the coat on the floor. “No drink first?”
“I’m not entertaining you.”
Vanessa took a slow sip, watching him over the rim. The frightened voice from the phone had vanished.
“I did try to tell you how bad it was.”
“You told me people were talking. If you know something else, say it.”
She set the glass down and took out her phone.
The photograph showed Claire outside a clinic, one hand holding her coat closed while Grant stood beside her. It had been taken during the weeks Adrian had spent calling numbers that went unanswered.
He reached for the phone. Vanessa moved it out of reach.
“She has someone driving her to appointments now,” she said. “Useful, considering how busy you always were.”
His face grew hot. “How long has this been going on?”
Vanessa gave a short laugh. “You want to accuse your wife of something? Now?”
He said nothing.
“She’s getting help, Adrian. That’s what the picture shows. Don’t make it more interesting just because you would.”
She put the phone away and lifted her purse from the stool.
“I didn’t sign up to go down with you. There are investigators who want to know what I know, and I’ve decided to cooperate.”
His attention sharpened. “What have you told them?”
“What I can prove.”
He stepped toward her. “Vanessa.”
She seemed to enjoy making him wait.
“The records came from me. The board, federal investigators, a couple of reporters. I made sure there wasn’t one person you could persuade to misplace them…”
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