“Eat Our Leftovers,” My Sister-in-Law Sneered Before Throwing Scalding Soup in My Face While My Mother-in-Law Laughed—So I Slapped Her, Made One Phone Call, and Said, “Let’s See Who Sleeps on the Street Tonight”...

Grant’s eyes scanned the heavy, cream-colored paper inside the folder. The silence in the grand foyer was absolute, save for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock.

He read the first line. Then the second.

The righteous anger that had flushed his face moments ago vanished, replaced by a sickening, chalky pallor.

"Grant?" Brooke asked, her voice losing its arrogant edge. "What is it? What did the crazy bitch print out?"

Grant didn't answer. He couldn't. He was staring at a forensic accounting summary detailing four hundred and sixty thousand dollars in unauthorized wire transfers. Transfers routed from his company’s operational budget directly into a private offshore account.

An account registered to Diane and Brooke Mercer.

"Morgan," Grant whispered, his voice cracking. "What is this?"

"That," I said smoothly, stepping off the last stair, "is the reason your company almost went bankrupt last quarter. The reason you didn't sleep for a month."

Diane stepped forward, her heels clicking nervously on the marble. "Grant, don't listen to her. It’s forged. She’s trying to divide us!"

Grant slowly looked up at his mother. The blind devotion in his eyes was fracturing.

"These are the routing numbers for your boutique," Grant said, his voice trembling. "And Brooke’s auto loan. The dates match perfectly with the days our payroll bounced."

"Turn the page, Grant," I commanded softly.

He flipped the heavy cardstock.

His breath caught in his throat.

He was looking at the master deed to the Belle Meade estate. The house we were standing in. The house his mother paraded around like she owned it.