Chapter 6 - The Paternity & the Prenup
The two men were not federal marshals. Not yet.
They were process servers from the Manhattan Supreme Court, accompanied by an independent medical bailiff specializing in high-net-worth family estate litigation.
The taller of the two stepped directly up to Grant, holding out a thick stack of blue-backed legal documents. “Grant Whitaker? You have been served with an emergency injunction for the immediate freezing of all assets under New York Domestic Relations Law Section 236, along with a summons for deposition.”
Before Grant could even lift his hands to refuse the papers, the server dropped them onto the floor right next to Brielle’s dropped envelope.
The second official turned to Brielle.
“Brielle Hart?”
Brielle shrank back behind Grant, clutching his tuxedo jacket. “Leave me alone! I’m pregnant! I’m under medical care!”
“Ms. Hart,” the man said with clinical detachment, “you are hereby served with a subpoena for court-ordered prenatal paternity testing, issued by the Honorable Judge Sterling pursuant to the fraud and asset-commingling investigation of the Montgomery-Whitaker Endowment.”
The silence in the Plaza Grand Ballroom was absolute now. The string quartet had stopped playing. Two hundred of the most powerful people in New York City were watching the complete, public dismantling of Grant Whitaker.
Grant’s head snapped around to Brielle. “Paternity testing? What the hell is he talking about? You said the child was mine!”
Brielle’s eyes darted frantically across the room, searching for an exit, searching for anyone to rescue her. “Grant, it’s a trick! She’s trying to humiliate us! She’s trying to drive a wedge between us!”
I took a step closer, my emerald gown whispering against the marble floor.
“It’s not a trick, Grant,” I said, my voice cutting through the heavy silence. “When Marcus Thorne began auditing Aura Luxe Ventures, he didn't just find payments for luxury clothes and interior decorators. He found recurring payments of fifteen thousand dollars a month to an account in the name of Christian Vance.”
Grant blinked, his brain desperately trying to connect the dots. “Christian Vance? Who the hell is Christian Vance?”
“He’s a personal trainer at the Equinox on Hudson Yards,” I said calmly. “The same personal trainer who accompanied Brielle on three separate weekend trips to the St. Regis in Aspen while you were in Chicago trying to renegotiate our credit facilities.”
Grant turned to Brielle. The look on his face was terrifying—a mixture of disbelief, betrayal, and absolute madness.
“Is that true?” Grant whispered.
“Grant, no! He was my fitness consultant! For the brand! For Aura Luxe!” Brielle shrieked, backing away from him until she hit the edge of the ice sculpture, the freezing water dripping onto the shoulders of her crimson gown.
“You paid your fitness consultant forty-five thousand dollars out of my corporate accounts during the exact week this child was conceived, Brielle,” I said, keeping my gaze locked on hers. “And according to the flight manifests we subpoenaed this morning, Grant was in London meeting with Barclays while you and Christian were registered in a single penthouse suite in Aspen.”
Grant’s hands began to shake uncontrollably.
His entire grand narrative—the powerful heir replacing his cold, barren wife with a fertile, devoted young woman who would secure the Whitaker bloodline—was collapsing into a cheap, sordid tabloid joke.
He had traded his marriage, his reputation, his family company, and his entire future for a woman who was carrying another man’s child while spending my grandfather’s money.
“You bitch,” Grant breathed, his voice trembling with a rage that seemed ready to detonate. “You lying, cheating little bitch!”
“Grant, please!” Brielle sobbed, covering her face. “I did it for us! I did it for the lifestyle you promised me!”
“You promised her a lifestyle you couldn't afford with money you didn't own,” I said, turning away from them. “You two truly deserve each other.”
I looked at Julian Mercer, who was watching the scene with a look of serene satisfaction.
“Shall we get a drink, Julian?” I asked.
“I believe a glass of vintage Krug is in order, Evelyn,” Julian replied smoothly, offering me his arm once again.
As we walked toward the champagne bar, leaving Grant and Brielle standing amidst the scattered court summonses and the whispers of New York’s elite, Grant lunged forward one last time.
“Evelyn!” he screamed, his voice cracking into a pathetic, desperate wail that echoed through the grand ballroom. “You can't do this! I have shares! I have thirty percent of Whitaker Holdings! The board can't remove me without a shareholder vote!”
I stopped, looked over my shoulder, and smiled.
May you like
“Check your email, Grant,” I said. “The emergency shareholder meeting ended twenty minutes ago. You don't have thirty percent anymore. You never did.”
***
