“Then explain.”
His jaw tightened.
“The company was yours. The lake house was yours. The buildings were yours. Everyone knew you were the important one.”
I stared at him.
There it was.
The thing beneath the affair.
Beneath the money.
Beneath the murder plan.
Resentment.
Grant had not hated my wealth.
He hated that it did not belong to him.
He hated being introduced as Natalie Whitaker’s husband.
He hated that my grandmother’s name opened doors his did not.
He hated needing my signature.
My permission.
My ownership.
Then he said it.
Quietly.
“I hated needing you.”
I stared through the glass.
“You didn’t need me.”
He looked confused.
“You could have divorced me.”
He said nothing.
“You could have left.”
Nothing.
“You could have built something of your own.”
His eyes dropped.
“But you didn’t want freedom, Grant.”
He looked up.
“You wanted my life without me in it.”
His eyes filled.
“I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“No.”
