Chapter 2 - THE REPORT GRANT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO SEE
“What the hell is that?”
Grant’s voice was so quiet that everyone in the room heard it.
My thumb moved toward my phone.
Too late.
He had already seen the heading.
PRENATAL PATERNITY ANALYSIS.
Sloane’s fingers slipped away from his hand.
Eleanor stopped breathing.
Conrad Whitmore stood.
“Claire.”
It was the first time all morning my father-in-law had said my name without sounding bored.
“Give me the phone.”
I looked at him.
“No.”
Grant pushed his chair back.
“Whose paternity test is that?”
I slid my signed divorce agreement toward his attorney.
“We’re finished here.”
“Claire.”
I stood.
Grant moved between me and the door.
For eight years, that would have meant something.
Once, I could read his face better than my own. I knew when he was worried from the slight tension beside his mouth. I knew when he was angry because his left hand would curl even while his voice remained calm.
Now both hands were fists.
“Sloane is twelve weeks pregnant,” I said.
His face tightened.
“I know.”
“And you believe those babies are yours.”
Sloane stood.
“Don’t do this.”
I looked at her.
Her face had gone completely white.
Interesting.
Grant noticed too.
He turned toward her.
“Sloane?”
She recovered quickly.
“This is exactly what she wants. She wants to destroy this moment because she can’t stand that you chose me.”
I almost admired her.
Almost.
Then Grant looked at my phone again.
“Claire. Answer me.”
I unlocked the screen.
Opened the report.
Then handed it to him.
Grant read the first page.
His expression didn't change immediately.
That was the terrifying thing about shock.
Sometimes the body understood before the mind did.
His eyes moved to the conclusion.
Probability of paternity: EXCLUDED.
I watched the exact second my husband’s world broke.
His mouth parted.
Then closed.
He looked at Sloane.
“No.”
She backed away.
“Grant, listen to me.”
His eyes returned to the report.
“There must be a mistake.”
Conrad snatched it from his hand.
“Where did you get fetal DNA?”
Finally.
The question I had expected.
Three weeks earlier, Sloane had undergone chorionic villus sampling after one twin showed an abnormal measurement during an ultrasound.
Grant had told me that part himself.
Not because he intended to.
He had come home at three in the morning after spending the entire evening with her at Northwestern Memorial and forgotten which woman he was talking to.
I had stood in our kitchen while he loosened his tie and said, “The procedure went well.”
I had stared at him.
“What procedure?”
He froze.
That was the night I stopped pretending I didn't know.
Two days later, a medical courier delivered a package to our house addressed to Grant.
Inside were copies of Sloane’s results and a sealed secondary specimen tube intended for transfer to another genetics laboratory.
The courier had made a mistake.
So had Grant.
He had added our home as his confidential correspondence address when he first started managing Sloane’s medical care.
I should have returned the package immediately.
Instead, I saw Sloane’s name.
Then Grant’s.
Then the words fetal specimen.
And something inside me became very still.
“I sent a portion to an accredited private laboratory,” I said.
Grant stared at me.
“You stole her medical sample?”
“I preserved evidence that was mistakenly delivered to my home.”
Sloane laughed hysterically.
“That is insane.”
“It may also be inadmissible in court,” Conrad snapped.
“I wasn't planning to use it in court.”
“Then why?”
I looked directly at Eleanor.
“Because your family was preparing to restructure a multibillion-dollar voting trust around two children who don't belong to Grant.”
That landed.
Whitmore Holdings wasn't merely a company.
It was a dynasty.
Railroads in the nineteenth century.
Manufacturing in the twentieth.
Data infrastructure, logistics, and private energy investments now.
The family controlled nearly seventeen billion dollars through a voting trust written by Grant’s grandfather.
Grant would inherit Conrad’s controlling interest.
Grant’s biological children would inherit after him.
The twins had already become part of the succession plan.
Before they had fingerprints.
Grant turned to Sloane.
“Tell me she's lying.”
Sloane's eyes filled instantly.
“Of course she is.”
“Then explain the report.”
“She hates me.”
“That doesn't explain DNA.”
“Grant—”
“WHO IS THEIR FATHER?”
His shout hit the glass walls and echoed.
The attorney stared down at his papers.
Eleanor stood.
“This conversation is over.”
“No,” Grant said.
His mother froze.
He looked at her.
“For once in my life, you don't get to decide when a conversation is over.”
Then he turned back to Sloane.
“Who?”
She began crying.
Perfect tears.
The same kind she had probably used every time she told Grant I was cold, bitter, infertile, impossible.
“I don't know what she did to that sample.”
I smiled.
Wrong answer.
Because innocent women don't accuse someone of manipulating a test before demanding another one.
They demand another test.
Immediately.
Grant realized it too.
“We're testing again.”
Sloane shook her head.
“No.”
The room went silent.
Grant stared at her.
“What did you say?”
“The babies are already under enough stress.”
“They're twelve weeks old.”
“I am under stress.”
“Then we use a blood test.”
She backed toward Eleanor.
“No.”
Grant’s face changed.
“Sloane.”
“I said no.”
And there it was.
Not proof.
But fear.
Grant looked sick.
I picked up my handbag.
“I believe the legal portion of our marriage is complete.”
He turned toward me.
“You're not leaving.”
The arrogance almost made me laugh.
“You just paid me twenty-eight million dollars to do exactly that.”
“Claire—”
“And you included a clause forbidding me from involving myself in future Whitmore family matters.”
His face tightened.
“So congratulations.”
I walked around him.
“Your twins are officially none of my business.”
My phone buzzed again.
Grant’s eyes dropped toward the screen.
This time he saw the entire message.
CLAIRE — Nathan confirmed the lake ceremony. September 18 is yours. I just need final approval on the flowers.
Grant stared.
“Nathan?”
I locked the phone.
His voice changed.
“Nathan Vale?”
Sloane stopped crying long enough to look between us.
Conrad frowned.
“Nathaniel Vale?”
Everyone in Chicago knew Nathan.
Vale Capital.
Thirty-nine.
Widowed.
Worth somewhere north of nine billion dollars.
And, more importantly to Grant, the only man he had ever considered a genuine rival.
Grant stared at me.
“You're marrying Nathan Vale?”
“Eventually.”
“You've been seeing him?”
“I've been speaking to him.”
“For how long?”
I almost laughed.
“Do you really want to ask me that while your pregnant mistress is standing behind you?”
His face flushed.
“We're still married.”
“Not anymore.”
I tapped the signed agreement.
“And for the record, Nathan did not touch me while I was your wife.”
That part mattered.
Not to Grant.
To me.
Nathan and I had known each other in college.
We had almost dated once.
Then life happened.
He married someone else.
I married Grant.
Nathan lost his wife to cancer four years ago.
We became friends again after he joined the board of the women’s medical foundation I chaired.
Six weeks earlier, when I discovered Grant’s affair, Nathan had been the person who sat across from me in an empty restaurant while I tried not to fall apart.
He hadn't kissed me.
He hadn't asked me to leave Grant.
He had simply said:
“When you're free, Claire, if you ever want a different life, I would like the chance to be part of it.”
Two weeks later, Grant asked for a divorce.
I called Nathan.
September eighteenth was not a wedding date yet.
It was a reservation.
A possibility.
A promise to myself that my life continued beyond Whitmore.
Grant looked like I had slapped him.
“You planned another wedding before our divorce was final?”
“You planned another family.”
Silence.
Then Conrad’s phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
“What?”
He walked toward the window.
“What do you mean the board found out?”
I stopped.
Eleanor turned sharply.
“Found out what?”
Conrad listened.
Then slowly lowered the phone.
Someone had leaked the existence of the DNA test.
Grant looked at me.
“Did you?”
“No.”
For the first time that day, I was telling them something they truly did not expect.
Conrad looked toward Sloane.
She was shaking.
Then a notification appeared on Grant’s phone.
Then mine.
Then every phone in the room.
WHITMORE HOLDINGS SUCCESSION IN QUESTION AFTER PATERNITY ALLEGATIONS INVOLVING CEO’S UNBORN TWINS.
The article had been posted forty-three seconds earlier.
Sloane whispered:
“Oh my God.”
Grant looked at her.
Then at his parents.
Then at me.
But I was staring at one sentence halfway down the article.
According to a source familiar with the family, senior Whitmore representatives became aware of possible paternity concerns several weeks ago.
Several weeks ago.
Before my test.
Before the divorce meeting.
I slowly looked at Eleanor.
Her face told me everything.
“You knew.”
Grant turned.
“What?”
I pointed toward his mother.
“She knew before today.”
Eleanor’s lips parted.
Grant stared at her.
“Mom?”
Nobody moved.
Then Sloane started crying again.
But this time, Eleanor did too.
And that was when I understood.
May you like
The secret wasn't only Sloane’s.
The Whitmores had been lying to Grant too.
