Chapter 2 - THE SILVER WATCH
“She told me my son never wanted to see me again.”
The words hung in the dining room, heavier than the silence.
Grant Mercer stood frozen, his eyes locked on his father. The powerful, commanding aura that had surrounded him when he walked through the doors simply vanished. He looked like a man who had just been punched in the chest.
Slowly, Grant turned toward Claire.
“What is he talking about?”
Claire’s flawless posture slipped for a fraction of a second. But she was a Whitmore. She had been trained for high-stakes rooms since childhood. She immediately softened her face, reaching out to gently touch Grant’s arm.
“Grant, sweetheart, please,” she said, her voice dripping with careful empathy. “He’s confused. You know how he gets. We talked about this.”
Arthur Mercer, the old man in the frayed brown coat, didn't raise his voice. He didn't have to.
“I’m not confused, Claire,” Arthur said. “You called me yesterday at 3:15 p.m. You said Grant’s new life had no room for his past. You said if I came to the engagement dinner, I would humiliate him in front of his investors.”
Grant flinched. He looked at Claire’s hand resting on his sleeve, then stepped back, letting her hand fall to her side.
“You called him?” Grant asked, his voice dangerously low.
“I was protecting you!” Claire shot back, the polished veneer cracking. “You haven’t spoken to him in three years, Grant! You told me yourself how much pain he caused you. I was trying to make tonight perfect. For us.”
“By telling him I didn't want him?” Grant ran a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven. “I haven't spoken to him because I thought he didn't want to speak to me. Every letter I sent for the last year was returned.”
Arthur’s head snapped up. “Letters? What letters?”
I stood by the host stand, my crumpled Bellamy House apron still clutched in my hands. I was just the fired waitress. I should have walked out the employee exit right then. But I couldn’t move.
Claire stepped between the two men, effectively blocking Grant’s view of his father.
“Grant, the investors are waiting in the lounge,” she urged, her voice tight. “My father is waiting. We can deal with this family drama tomorrow. Not tonight. Not in public.”
Grant looked over Claire’s shoulder at his father.
But Arthur was already buttoning his worn brown coat. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once, replaced by a deep, hollow resignation.
“She’s right about one thing, Son,” Arthur said quietly. “This isn't the place. I just came to see you one last time. To make sure you were doing well. And you are.”
“Dad, wait—”
“Congratulations on your engagement, Grant,” Arthur said.
He didn't look back. Arthur turned and walked past the glittering chandeliers, past the whispering guests, and out the heavy glass doors into the freezing rain.
Grant started to follow him, but Claire grabbed his wrist, digging her manicured nails into his suit jacket. “If you walk out that door right now, my father will pull his funding for the Boston project. I mean it, Grant.”
Grant stopped. The hesitation on his face broke my heart.
He looked at the door, then at Claire, the weight of a billion-dollar empire pressing down on his shoulders. He closed his eyes, his jaw clenched so hard it trembled.
“Five minutes,” Grant whispered to her, his voice devoid of warmth. “Go tell the investors I need five minutes.”
Claire offered a triumphant, icy smile. She had won. She smoothed her gold dress and walked toward the private lounge without a backward glance.
Grant stood alone in the center of the room. I watched him sink into the chair his father had just vacated at table nine. He buried his face in his hands.
Richard, my now-former manager, cleared his throat and looked at me. “Megan. You need to leave. Now.”
I nodded. I had my own problems. A broken car, an empty bank account, and no job.
I walked over to table nine to clear the coffee cup and the untouched apple pie, out of pure habit.
As I reached for the plate, I saw it.
Tucked beneath the folded linen napkin was a heavy, tarnished silver pocket watch. It had a deep dent on the side, but the intricate engraving on the front was unmistakable.
I picked it up. It felt warm in my palm.
Grant looked up through his fingers. “That’s my father’s.”
“He must have left it,” I said softly, holding it out to him.
Grant stared at the watch, but he didn't take it. “He never takes that off. Never. It was his grandfather’s.”
Grant reached out and pressed the small latch on the side. The watch sprang open.
There was no clock face inside.
Instead, tucked into the casing, was a small, faded photograph.
Grant’s breath hitched. He stared at the photo, all the color draining from his face.
I couldn't help but look.
It was a picture of Arthur, twenty years younger, smiling broadly. Standing next to him, with an arm slung around Arthur’s shoulder in a brotherly embrace, was a wealthy-looking man holding a champagne flute.
“Who is that?” I asked before I could stop myself.
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Grant looked up at me, his eyes wide with a mixture of betrayal and dawning horror.
“That’s Claire’s father,” Grant whispered. “But Claire told me her family had never met my dad.”
