“You thought that meant it belonged to you.”
“I built Whitman Global.”
“And that gives you the right to move my shares?”
“I was protecting the company.”
The board member still holding the document looked up.
“From whom?”
Grant didn’t answer.
Sloane reached for her wineglass again, but this time her hand shook enough that the stem tapped against the table.
I opened the folder to the last section.
“The expenses and the shares are separate issues,” I said.
“But they have one thing in common.
Grant expected no one to ask questions.”
“That’s enough,” he snapped.
His voice struck the walls of the private room harder than he intended.
His mother flinched.
Naomi didn’t.
She stared at him with open disgust.
Grant seemed to realize how he sounded and lowered his voice.
“Clara, we can discuss this privately.”
I almost admired the speed of the change.
Ten minutes before, he had announced the end of our marriage in front of his parents, his mistress, my best friend, and members of his board.
Now privacy mattered.
“You chose the audience,” I said.
His eyes narrowed.
“You came here planning this.”
“No.
You planned this.
I came prepared for it.”
That landed harder than anything else I had said.
The restaurant manager was still beside me with the contract.
I turned to him.
“There’s one more thing I’d like confirmed.”
Grant looked exhausted now.
“What?”
I ignored him.
“Under tonight’s contract, who controls the private room and guest arrangements?”
The manager answered calmly.
“The contracting host.”
“Which is?”
“You, Mrs.
Whitman.”
I looked at Sloane.
Then at Grant.
The irony was almost too clean.
She had changed my card because she thought removing my title removed my place.
Grant had moved my chair because he thought sitting at the head of the table made him the person in control.
But the reservation, the deposit, and the host authority for the entire private room were mine.
For that evening, every seat they had rearranged existed under a contract bearing my name.
I picked up the card marked Former Wife.
“You were right about one thing,” I told Grant.
He stared at me.
“Labels don’t matter nearly as much as signatures.”
Naomi finally smiled.
Sloane pushed back her chair.
“I’m not staying for this.”
Grant turned on her.
