Chapter 5 - The Arrival of Grant
The minor procedure to repair my torn stitches felt like a blur of local anesthesia, stinging antiseptic, and the quiet, steady presence of Dr. Henderson working with furious efficiency. By the time I was wheeled back into the recovery room, the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting long, amber shadows across the floor.
Clara was sleeping soundly in her bassinet, wrapped in a fresh, warm blanket.
Sitting in the vinyl chair beside the bed was Grant. His face was pale, his shoulders hunched, and his eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. The moment the orderly wheeled me into position, Grant was out of the chair, his hands gently hovering over mine as if afraid I would break.
"Natalie," he choked out, his voice cracking. "The nurse at the front desk told me... she told me what happened. Diane and Brielle... they were escorted out by police and security. Mr. Vance called me."
"I'm okay, Grant," I whispered, squeezing his hand back with whatever strength I had left. "The stitches are redone. Clara is safe."
Grant buried his face in our joined hands, his shoulders shaking with a mixture of suppressed rage and overwhelming relief. "I was a coward, Nat. For ten years, I let them walk all over you because I thought, 'Well, they're her family, maybe it'll get better.' It never got better. It just escalated."
"It stops tonight," I said, my voice carrying a hard, unyielding edge that surprised even me.
The door clicked open softly, and Marcus Vance stepped back inside, holding a thick manila folder and a steaming cup of black coffee, which he handed quietly to Grant.
"Good evening again," Marcus said, taking a seat in the remaining chair. "I hope I'm not intruding."
"Not at all, Mr. Vance," Grant said, wiping his eyes and sitting up straight. "I... I don't even know how to thank you. If you hadn't walked in—"
"Save the thanks for the courtroom if it comes to that," Marcus interrupted smoothly, tossing the manila folder onto the rolling tray. "Instead, let's talk about strategy. Because your mother-in-law and sister are currently outside the hospital gates making a scene, and they've already contacted a bottom-feeding divorce attorney trying to figure out how to claim rights to your dry-cleaning business and your personal assets."
I stared at him, my jaw dropping. "They're doing what?"
"They are desperate, cornered, and deeply entitled," Marcus explained calmly. "People like Diane Mercer operate entirely on social image and financial leverage. They believe that because they share DNA with you, they are entitled to a piece of everything you build. Well, I spent the last three hours pulling public records, corporate filings, and text message transcripts from your sister's phone via a subpoena threat to her venue coordinator."
Marcus opened the folder, revealing printed screenshots, bank statements, and legal drafts.
"Your sister’s eighty-thousand-dollar party isn't just funded by loans," Marcus continued, his eyes narrowing. "She has been taking out high-interest personal signature loans using your maiden name and old social security numbers—identity theft, plain and simple. She forged your signature on a preliminary vendor contract three weeks ago."
The room went dead silent. Grant stared at the papers, his face turning an ash-gray color of pure disbelief.
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"Identity theft?" Grant whispered. "She could go to prison for that."
"She will go to prison for that, unless she signs a comprehensive, ironclad non-disclosure and absolute waiver of contact," Marcus corrected smoothly. "My firm is representing you pro bono, effective immediately. We are going to sever every legal, financial, and familial tie Diane and Brielle think they have over you."
