Chapter 4 - Diane’s Velvet Trap
By Thursday morning, Grant was out of the townhome.
Marcus had made it crystal clear: the deed was mine, the down payment was mine, and if Grant refused to vacate, we would file an immediate motion for exclusive possession based on domestic disruption during early pregnancy. Grant’s firm despised bad press; his senior partner had reportedly pulled him aside and told him to resolve his marital disaster quietly if he wanted any hope of staying at the firm.
He had cleared his closet, his golf clubs, and his expensive espresso machine, leaving his key on the granite island.
I stood in the quiet of my kitchen, opening the windows to let the crisp autumn breeze sweep out the lingering scent of Grant’s expensive cologne. The silence was glorious.
Then the intercom buzzed.
I walked over to the security monitor by the front door. Standing in the foyer downstairs was Diane.
She wasn't wearing her usual haughty sneer. She had left her designer sunglasses off, her eyes artificially reddened, clutching an antique silver locket around her neck. She looked frail, fragile—the perfect performance of an aggrieved, loving grandmother-to-be.
I pressed the intercom button. "Diane. You shouldn't be here."
"Rachel, darling," Diane's voice warbled through the speaker. "Please let me up. Just five minutes. Between women. Between mothers."
I hesitated for a beat, then pressed the button. "Stay in the lobby. I’ll come down."
I wasn't about to let her inside my sanctuary. I slipped into a comfortable knit sweater, grabbed my purse containing my phone recording app already running, and took the elevator down to the lobby.
Diane was waiting on the velvet settee. The moment she saw me, she rose, opening her arms as if to embrace me. I stopped three feet away, crossing my arms over my chest.
Her arms fell awkwardly. She pulled out an embroidered handkerchief and dabbed at her dry eyes.
"Rachel, look at you," she sighed softly. "You look pale. Are you eating enough? You have to think of the little one now. Stress is so dangerous in the first trimester."
"I was completely stress-free until you pressed my buzzer, Diane," I said coolly. "What do you want?"
Diane’s lips tightened slightly at the dismissal, but she kept her velvet mask on. "I came to apologize for Sunday night. Melissa was out of line. She’s young, she speaks without thinking. And Grant was exhausted. But a marriage is sacred, Rachel. You don't throw away three years of love over one tense dinner."
"Is that why you're here, Diane? For love?" I asked, tilting my head. "Or is it because Tyler's tuition payment bounced, and the credit card you use for your weekly spa treatments was declined yesterday afternoon?"
Diane’s face twitched. A flash of venom broke through her practiced facade before she quickly recovered.
"How can you reduce family to money?" she whispered dramatically. "We welcomed you into our circle! When Grant brought you home from that little farming town in Wisconsin, we treated you like a daughter!"
"You treated me like an ATM," I corrected her, stepping forward. "I have the bank statements, Diane. Over the course of my marriage to Grant, I transferred over two hundred and ten thousand dollars to you, Tyler, and Melissa. Do you know how much Grant contributed to that? Zero. Because his entire salary went to his leased BMW, his country club dues, and his private image."
Diane’s eyes narrowed into slits. "You're carrying my grandchild. That child is a Mercer. You think you can cut us out? You think you can take my son's baby and hide behind a lawyer?"
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"That child is my flesh and blood," I said, my voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "And unlike Grant, this baby will grow up knowing the value of honesty, dignity, and hard work. Tyler has until Friday to pack his dorm unless you take out a second mortgage on your cottage. Have a good afternoon, Diane."
I turned on my heel and walked back to the elevators, leaving her standing alone in the marble lobby, trembling with pure, impotent rage.
