Grant missed the irony. He didn’t know the “Shadow Chairman” who saved his company, approved his bonus, and could erase his career with one signature was standing three feet away.
To him, I was just Celine. The quiet girl he married after college. The “housewife” who managed groceries while he “managed” the world. He had no idea that while he played office politics, I was building an empire in silence—using my grandmother’s inheritance to acquire distressed tech firms and restructure them into profit machines.
His phone buzzed.
“It’s Brooke,” Grant said, reading the text. “She’s already at the venue. Says she’s ready to ‘handle’ you if you get bored and start talking about recipes.”
“Your sister is so considerate,” I said flatly.
“She just wants what’s best for me,” Grant said, checking his watch. “Let’s go. And Celine? Try to look… smarter. Just nod. Don’t overdo it.”
We walked out to the waiting town car. Grant slid into the leather seat, checking his reflection in the window—oblivious that tonight would be the last time he ever rode in a company vehicle.
The Nanny Lie
The Grand Ballroom at the Plaza was a sea of tuxedos and glittering gowns. Champagne trays drifted through the crowd, and the air hummed with quiet deals.
Grant was in his element. He strode in like he owned the place, gripping my elbow a little too tightly as he steered me toward VIP.
