Grant turned toward her.
“You told me eight.”
“You told me you were divorcing Camille.”
“You told me Mason knew your marriage was finished.”
Mason stared at them as though he had stepped into someone else’s nightmare.
Tessa claimed Grant had manipulated her.
Grant said Tessa had pursued him.
Tessa said Grant promised her an apartment and money.
Grant accused her of stealing confidential files.
Within minutes, they were tearing apart every promise they had made to each other.
A surgeon entered carrying consent forms.
“We need to proceed,” she said. “Mr. Whitmore listed his wife as his medical decision-maker.”
Grant closed his eyes.
The surgeon handed me the paperwork.
I took the pen but did not sign.
“What is the access code to the safe in your study?” I asked.
Grant’s eyes opened.
“That has nothing to do with my treatment.”
“Then we can continue this conversation after the doctors finish assessing your condition.”
The surgeon frowned.
“Mrs. Whitmore, delaying—”
“Six-two-eight-four-one,” Grant said quickly.
I entered the code into my phone.
Then I signed.
