Then she saw the tox screen report, the bruises photographed on my arms, and the audio transcript Lena had printed.
She sat down in the chair by my bed and covered her face.
“I thought
you were overwhelmed,” she whispered.
“Every time you tried to tell me something, I thought it was wedding stress.”
I should have been angry.
Part of me was.
But another part was too tired.
“I know,” I said.
She lowered her hands.
“I am so sorry.”
It did not fix anything.
But it was the first honest thing either of us had said in months.
Grant was not arrested that day.
Men like Grant rarely are.
They buy time with lawyers, charm, and the assumption that the world owes them a graceful explanation.
He retained counsel, issued a statement calling the allegations “the invention of a distressed fiancée,” and told anyone who would listen that I had stolen cash from his office and attempted suicide when confronted.
But warrants had a way of stripping varnish.
The search of his office uncovered a second safe, three burner phones, forged signature stamps, and ledgers matching the flash drive.
Trevor tried to wipe his messages before police reached him, but enough remained.
So did security footage from the service hallway showing Grant stopping me twice that afternoon and checking my handbag.
Still, Lena wanted one more thing: his voice, unmistakable, admitting he knew I had the money and the files.
