Chapter 2 - The True Owner
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"You own the house?" Grant asked.
The words sounded absurd in his mouth. He looked around the grand foyer, taking in the vaulted ceilings, the twenty-eight-thousand-dollar chandelier, the sweeping double staircase. He had spent the last two years believing he had secured a miracle corporate lease.
"I own the house," I confirmed. "I own the cars. I own the country club membership your mother uses to impress her friends. And, as of two years ago, my holding company is the primary angel investor that kept your business from collapsing."
Brooke scoffed loudly, crossing her arms. "You're a liar. You work for a consulting firm."
"I own the consulting firm, Brooke," I replied coldly. "I manage my grandfather's estate. I just didn't want my husband marrying a balance sheet."
Diane’s face turned an ugly, mottled red. The realization that she had been living on my charity—and had just thrown soup at her benefactor—was beginning to sink in.
"If you own it," Diane snapped, trying to reclaim her aristocratic high ground, "then why did you let us treat you like an outsider?"
"I let you show me exactly who you were," I said.
I reached up and slowly unbuttoned the top three buttons of my cream silk blouse.
I pulled the fabric aside, exposing my collarbone and chest.
The skin was angry, blistering red, and already beginning to swell where the scalding broth had hit me.
Grant gasped, physically recoiling.
May you like
"My God, Morgan," he choked out.
"Your sister threw boiling soup on me," I stated, staring directly into his eyes. "Your mother laughed. And you told me I should leave. So I am leaving, Grant. But you all are leaving first."
