Chapter 7 - THE INTERVIEW GRANT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO GIVE
Grant went on television at 8:00 that night.
Not alone.
That had been his idea.
I rejected it.
“No.”
We stood in my library.
Malcolm.
Samuel.
Claire.
Grant.
Me.
Sloane sat near the window.
Grandmother joined by video.
An absurd war council.
Grant looked at me.
“If we appear together, people will understand.”
“They will assume reconciliation.”
“No.”
“They will.”
He knew I was right.
Sloane said:
“She should not have to sit beside you while you explain your misconduct.”
Everyone turned.
She almost laughed.
“Apparently I am capable of useful observations.”
Grant nodded.
“She’s right.”
Grandmother said from the screen:
“Of course she is.”
Sloane looked startled.
Victoria continued:
“Terrible judgment in men does not imply stupidity.”
Grant looked offended.
I almost smiled.
The plan became simple.
Grant would give one interview.
No preview questions.
No prepared excuses.
No attack on Halston.
Just history.
At eight, I watched from my library while Grant sat across from journalist Michael Barrett.
The first question was brutal.
“Did Eleanor Hartwell secretly control Pierce Meridian while you served as CEO?”
Grant answered:
“No.”
“Did her family control more voting equity than you understood?”
“Yes.”
“Did she hide that from you?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
Then:
“Why?”
Grant looked directly into the camera.
“Because I made being rescued humiliating.”
Silence in the studio.
Barrett frowned.
“Explain.”
Grant took a breath.
“When Pierce Meridian nearly failed, Eleanor used her family’s investment structure to provide capital.”
“I did not know.”
“She did not tell me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was insecure about her family’s wealth.”
He swallowed.
“She loved me enough to protect my pride.”
Then:
“That was generous.”
“And unhealthy.”
I stared.
Grant continued.
“She should not have had to make herself smaller so I could feel larger.”
Barrett asked:
“Did she direct company operations?”
“No.”
“Did she know about your relationship with Sloane Delacroix before it became public?”
“Yes.”
That answer caused noise even in my quiet library.
Sloane closed her eyes.
Grant continued:
“She discovered it months earlier.”
“Why didn't she confront you?”
“You should ask her.”
Good.
He did not tell my story.
Barrett leaned forward.
“The article alleges Ms. Hartwell knew about corporate expenses associated with the affair and waited to act until the banquet humiliation.”
“Correct?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean she tolerated misuse of funds until it became personal?”
Grant shook his head.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the first evidence she found was part of her investigation.”
“She did not know the full scope before then.”
Barrett asked:
“Did Eleanor Hartwell benefit from allowing you to remain CEO?”
Grant laughed once.
“No.”
“She benefited financially when Pierce Meridian succeeded.”
“As did every shareholder.”
“But she would have benefited more if I had been a competent husband and CEO.”
I almost laughed.
Barrett continued.
“Do you blame her for your removal?”
“No.”
“For the collapse of your marriage?”
“No.”
“For publicly revealing Hartwell’s ownership at the anniversary dinner?”
Grant looked toward the camera.
“No.”
“What do you blame her for?”
He thought.
“Protecting me from consequences longer than she should have.”
That answer hit harder than anger.
Barrett asked:
“Do you still love her?”
The room around me disappeared.
Grant did not answer quickly.
Then:
“Yes.”
My body went still.
Sloane looked at me.
Grandmother’s expression did not change.
Grant continued.
“But that is not a request.”
I exhaled.
“Eleanor does not owe me another marriage because I understand the first one now.”
Barrett paused.
“Do you want her back?”
“Yes.”
Grant’s face tightened.
“And I want to deserve things I may never receive.”
Silence.
“That distinction took me a long time.”
I closed my eyes.
Damn him.
Not because he was manipulating me.
Because I believed him.
Belief was more dangerous than anger.
The interview lasted thirty minutes.
By nine, the narrative changed.
Again.
Former Pierce Meridian employees confirmed I had never directed operations.
Board members described Hartwell as a passive but significant investor.
Malcolm publicly released timeline information proving North Vale’s governance role remained separate.
Grant’s old partners admitted he had made decisions independently.
The scandal did not disappear.
It became accurate.
That was enough.
Then Sloane spoke.
Not publicly.
To federal investigators.
She handed over the Halston files.
Her employment records.
Messages from Voss.
Instructions to gather information on Pierce Meridian personnel.
Within forty-eight hours, regulators opened a preliminary inquiry into potential undisclosed coordinated share accumulation.
Halston denied wrongdoing.
Julian Voss went on television.
He smiled.
Called the accusations desperate.
Then he made his mistake.
He attacked Lena.
Not by name.
But everyone knew.
“Pierce Meridian has become an organization where executives ask shareholders to subsidize personal mistakes and employee sentiment.”
The phrase enraged people.
Employees began organizing.
Not a union.
Not exactly.
A coalition.
They called themselves Meridian 600.
Their position:
If a sale occurred, employees demanded representation in negotiations.
Shareholders noticed.
Clients noticed.
Halston did not like variables.
Three days later, Grant came to my apartment.
Not the Greenwich house.
My Manhattan apartment.
I had returned there because reporters surrounded the estate.
He brought food.
Thai.
From the restaurant we ate at when we were dating.
I stared at the bag.
“Manipulative nostalgia.”
“Cheap noodles.”
“It was cheap fifteen years ago.”
“Now it is twenty-nine dollars.”
“Capitalism.”
He smiled.
“Can I come in?”
He asked.
I noticed.
“Yes.”
We ate at the kitchen island.
For several minutes, neither discussed the interview.
Then:
“You didn't have to say you loved me.”
Grant looked down.
“I was asked.”
“You could have declined.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you?”
“Because I’m tired of telling truths strategically.”
That was a good answer.
I hated it.
Grant continued:
“I don't expect anything.”
“Stop saying that.”
He looked surprised.
“Why?”
“Because repeating that you expect nothing starts sounding like a strategy to receive something.”
He blinked.
Then laughed.
“Fair.”
Silence.
I looked at him.
“Do you love Sloane?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
He thought.
“I loved how she made me feel.”
That answer sounded painfully familiar.
“She admired me.”
“You did too.”
“Once.”
I looked away.
Grant continued.
“You stopped.”
“No.”
I turned.
“I stopped admiring the version of you that needed admiration constantly.”
He absorbed that.
“Fair.”
“You keep saying fair.”
“Therapist.”
I stared.
“You're in therapy.”
“Nine months.”
I almost dropped my fork.
Grant smiled faintly.
“I had a similar reaction.”
“Why?”
“Because after the divorce I spent six weeks trying to decide whether everyone else had overreacted.”
“That sounds like you.”
“Then I realized six hundred employees, my wife, my board, and my mistress all being wrong simultaneously seemed statistically unlikely.”
I laughed.
Really laughed.
Grant looked at me.
Something softened.
I immediately regretted noticing.
“Who suggested therapy?”
“Malcolm.”
I stared.
“Malcolm?”
“He called me after mediation.”
“What did he say?”
“Exact words?”
“Yes.”
“‘You are too rich to remain this emotionally stupid.’”
I covered my mouth.
Grant smiled.
“I hired someone the next morning.”
I would be discussing this with Malcolm.
Aggressively.
Grant became serious.
“I’m sorry about the medical records.”
I stiffened.
“You didn't leak them.”
“No.”
“But you were there.”
I looked at him.
“During treatment.”
“Yes.”
“Physically.”
His face changed.
That was the difference.
Physically there.
Emotionally elsewhere.
“I was terrible.”
“Yes.”
“I treated every failed cycle like bad business news.”
“Something to move past.”
“Yes.”
“You never asked whether I wanted to stop.”
“I know.”
“I stopped because I could not survive another appointment with a husband checking emails in the waiting room.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“I remember.”
“So do I.”
He looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
Tears came before I gave permission.
I hated that.
Grant did not move.
Good.
He did not touch me because tears existed.
“I wanted a child.”
My voice broke.
“I know.”
“No.”
I wiped my face.
“I don't think you knew how much.”
He stared.
“I wanted the terrible mornings.”
“The noise.”
“The school forms.”
“The stupid Halloween costumes.”
“I wanted somebody to call me Mom while I was trying to make dinner.”
Grant’s eyes filled.
“I know now.”
“Too late.”
“Yes.”
That answer saved him.
No promise.
No alternative fantasy.
Just yes.
Too late.
We sat quietly.
Then Grant said:
“I wanted it too.”
I looked at him.
“But I was afraid if I admitted how much, losing it would mean something about me.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Everything meant something about you.”
“I know.”
He wiped his face.
“So I made work the place where I could always win.”
“And then you lost me there too.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Eventually, I asked:
“What do you want from Pierce Meridian?”
Grant answered immediately.
“To survive.”
“You don't want back in?”
“No.”
“Not eventually?”
He thought.
“Maybe I want to be invited.”
I stared.
He smiled sadly.
“But I don't think I should accept.”
That was probably the most mature thing Grant Pierce had ever said.
My phone rang.
Claire.
I answered.
“Tell me something good.”
“I can't.”
Of course.
“What?”
“Halston has another ten percent.”
I stood.
“How?”
“Two funds just disclosed coordinated support.”
“Total?”
“Twenty-eight-point-six.”
My stomach tightened.
Combined with Owen and several institutions, Voss could now plausibly win a tender fight.
Claire continued:
“And he scheduled a press conference tomorrow.”
“For?”
“We don't know.”
Grant looked at my face.
I ended the call.
“What?”
I told him.
Grant stood.
“Voss is moving to end it.”
Maybe.
Then another message arrived.
From Julian himself.
DINNER. TOMORROW. JUST YOU AND ME.
I stared.
Grant read over my shoulder.
“No.”
I looked at him.
He realized immediately.
“Sorry.”
I smiled faintly.
“Growth.”
Then I typed one word.
May you like
YES.
If Julian Voss wanted my decision, he could ask for it to my face.
