Chapter 10 Grayson
GRAYSON
The house doesn't want me here.
At midnight, my breathing echoes in the empty Trousdale foyer.
I stand in the living room, then grab my keys and leave.
On the drive to VTG I call her again and again. Voicemail.
"Abbie." I have to clear my throat. "Abbie, please. I need you to pick up. I need—" What? What do I need? To explain? To tell her Delaney's lying? She knows Delaney's lying. That's not what this is about. "Just call me. Please."
I ride to forty-one with my hands braced against the elevator walls, counting breaths. I call her again. I pace my dark office. Every time I turn toward the window I see her on that stage.
I call once more.
"The number you have reached—"
I hang up and dial her lawyer. Daniel Reed. It's 1:07 in the morning.
"Hello?" He sounds like I woke him. Good.
"It's Grayson Valentine. I need to know where my wife is."
"Mr. Valentine." A pause. Rustling, like he's sitting up. "It's one in the morning."
"I'm aware of the time. Where is she?"
"Even if I knew—"
"Don't." My voice comes out harder than I mean it to. "Don't tell me you don't know. She's asked you to represent her. You know exactly where she is."
"Mr. Valentine, I represent Abigail's interests, which means—"
"Her name is Abbie. She hates Abigail. You'd know that if you'd ever actually talked to her instead of just billing her."
Silence.
"I can't disclose my client's location," he says finally. "Not without her consent. And I doubt she's giving it tonight."
"Then get her consent."
"At one in the morning."
"Yes. At one in the goddamn morning. Tell her I need to see her. Tell her—" My throat closes. I press my free hand against the glass, feel the cold of it, and it's nothing like her voice in that elevator eight years ago. "Tell her I know what this looks like and I need a chance to explain."
"I'll pass along the message."
He hangs up. I call Marguerite.
"Gray." She answers on the second ring, which means she wasn't sleeping either. Probably been on the phone with Abbie all night. "It's late."
"I need to know where she is."
"No."
"Marguerite, I'm not asking you to... I just need to know she's safe."
"She's safe."
"How do you know that? Have you talked to her?"
"I know she's safe, Mr. Valentine. That's all you're getting from me tonight."
"That's not... I need more than that. I need to know where she went, if she's staying somewhere, if she needs anything."
"What she needs is not something you can provide right now."
"You don't get to decide that."
"No, I don't. She decided it when she walked out that door."
"She left because of what happened at the gala. Because Delaney... you know what Delaney did. You know that accusation was a lie. You know I never touched my sister-in-law, you know the baby isn't mine, you know—"
"I know all of that, Mr. Valentine."
"Then you know Abbie knows it too. She's not stupid. She knows Delaney was lying."
"Yes."
"So this isn't about the affair that didn't happen."
"No, it's not."
"Then what... why won't you help me find my wife?"
"Because your wife doesn't want to be found. By you. Right now."
"She's upset. She's hurt. I understand that, I do, but if I could just talk to her—"
"And say what?"
"I... what?"
"What would you say to her, Mr. Valentine? If I told you where she was and you showed up there tonight, what would you say?"
I drag my hand down the glass, searching for an answer.
"I would explain. About Delaney, about why I didn't... I was in shock. I froze. I didn't expect her to—"
"You didn't defend her."
"I know."
"On a stage, in front of everyone she works with, everyone who matters in her industry, you let another woman claim she was carrying your child, and you said nothing."
"I know what I did."
"Do you? Because I've worked for you for ten years, and I've watched you do a lot of nothing when it comes to that woman."
"I just need to talk to her."
"Why?"
"Because she's my wife."
"That's not a reason, Mr. Valentine. That's a title. Why do you need to talk to her?"
"Because I love her."
"Do you?"
"How can you ask me that?"
"Because I've been in this house when you weren't. I've seen the dinners she cooked that went cold.
I've heard the phone calls you took when she was trying to tell you something.
I've watched her sit in that living room alone, night after night, while you were wherever you were, doing whatever was more important. "
I keep my phone in my hand.
"My work is—"
"Your work is your work. I'm not saying it's not important. I'm saying she was alone, Mr. Valentine. In a marriage. With you. Alone."
"Marguerite, please. I'm asking you, I'm begging you. Just tell me she's okay. Just tell me where she is so I know she's safe."
"I already told you she's safe."
"But I need to—"
"You need to sit with this, Mr. Valentine. You need to sit with the fact that your wife left and she doesn't want you to follow her and there's nothing you can do about that tonight. Not one single thing."
"I can't just do nothing."
"You've been doing nothing for a long time. A few more hours won't kill you."
"That's not fair."
"No, it's not. None of this is fair. It's not fair to her, it's not fair to you, it's not fair to anyone. But fair doesn't matter right now. What matters is that she asked for space and you're going to give it to her."
"And if I don't? If I find her myself?"
"Then you'll prove every bad thing she's thinking about you right now. You'll prove that what you want matters more than what she needs. You'll prove that you still don't know how to listen to her."
"Mr. Valentine, I've watched you two. I've seen how it started and I've seen how it's become. You're not a bad man. I've never thought that. But you're not a present one, either. And she deserves present."
"I want to be."
"Then be it. But not tonight. Tonight you let her go.
Tonight you sit with what happened and you think about how you got here.
Really think about it. Not how Delaney got up on that stage, but how you built a marriage where your wife could look at that accusation and not be surprised that you didn't fight for her. "
"That's not... she knows I would fight for her."
"Does she?"
"I would."
"When? When it's convenient? When the cameras aren't rolling? When it doesn't make you uncomfortable?"
"I froze. I was in shock."
"I believe you. But shock isn't an excuse. It's an explanation. And explanations don't heal anything."
"What does?"
"I don't know, Mr. Valentine. I clean houses. I don't fix marriages. That's above my pay grade."
"Then what am I supposed to do?"
"Fix yourself, Gray. Then maybe she'll let you find her."
The line goes dead. I draft texts and delete all of them. I love you. Delete. Please let me explain. Delete. The baby isn't mine. Delete.
3:47 a.m. I keep my phone in my hand. It doesn't ring.
I think about Richard’s money. Eight months of secrecy. I've been afraid of her seeing me clearly this whole time. That's the thing I haven't wanted to admit.
At 4:08 a.m. I text Delaney: My office. First thing. Then I sit down for the first time in hours and wait.
* * *
She walks through the lobby doors at 8:02. I'm already there. I came down at 7:45 because I couldn't pace my office anymore. I'm in the middle of the floor where everyone can see me.
My shirt hangs untucked. My tie is gone. I haven’t slept. Delaney falters, then smiles.
"Gray." She sounds concerned. Practiced. "You wanted to see me? I've been so worried—"
"You're fired."
The lobby goes quiet. The lobby watches. Theo’s face goes white. I notice.
"I'm sorry?" Delaney takes a step closer, lowering her voice like we're having a private conversation. "Gray, I don't think—"
"You are not pregnant by me." My voice cracks on the second sentence and I hate it, hate how wrecked I sound, but I keep going because I have to.
"You lied about my wife on a stage. Your badge is dead.
Security has your things. Counsel can meet with you without an active employment contract. I should never have let this drag on."
"You're not serious."
"When have I ever not been serious?"
Her expression shifts. The mask slipping. She glances around at all the people watching and her jaw tightens.
"You're going to regret this," she says quietly. "Everything I've done for this agency—"
"What you've done is poison my marriage.
What you've done is make my wife think I've been lying to her for years.
What you've done—" I have to stop. Breathe.
My hands are shaking. "I trusted you. You are her sister.
And you stood in front of the entire industry and told them I'm the father of your child. "
"I never meant for it to go this far—"
"You said I was the father." My voice cuts through whatever excuse she's constructing. "On stage. Into a microphone. In front of everyone we work with. You didn't imply. You didn't let anyone assume. You said it."
"I was emotional, I wasn't thinking—"
"You were calculating." I step closer, and she actually backs up. "You wanted attention. You wanted leverage. And you thought claiming my name would get you both."
Her chin lifts. "You can't prove—"
"I don't need to prove anything. I just need to tell the truth, which you apparently find terrifying."
"Maybe if you'd paid attention to me—"
"Attention?" I step closer, and she actually flinches. Good. "You wanted attention? You got it. Everyone in this lobby is paying attention to you right now. Everyone's going to remember the day Delaney Montgomery got fired for lying about the CEO. That's your attention. Enjoy it."
"You can't do this," she hisses. "My father—"
"Your father funded an expansion he had no business funding because I agreed to take it. Don't talk to me about your father."
"He believed in you! He trusted you to—"
"He asked me to hide it from my wife, and I agreed. But that's done." I turn to the security guard hovering near the elevator bank. "Ms. Montgomery's badge has been deactivated. Please escort her out."
Delaney’s smile disappears.
"You'll regret this," she says again, louder this time. "Everything you have. I helped build it. I introduced you to half your clients. I brought my family's money when you needed it most—"
"And I'll be returning every cent of it today. With penalties. Out of my own pocket."
She stares at me. "You're insane."
"Maybe. But I'm done lying to my wife."
The security guard takes her arm. She shakes him off, grabs her purse, and turns back to me one more time.
"Abbie's going to leave you anyway," she says. "You know that, right? She's been one foot out the door for months. I just sped up the inevitable."
"Get out."
She goes. People begin murmuring again as I return to the elevator. I don't care.
In my office, my lawyer confirms the buyback amount under the investment agreement.
I wire Richard’s principal plus the agreed fifteen percent early-exit premium, all from my personal accounts, not VTG’s.
My lawyer sends the exit documents with the transfer.
Then I write a note that’s three sentences long:
Richard.
I was wrong to take this money. I was wrong to hide it from Abbie. You will never again be a sentence in my marriage.
Grayson
Then I drive to the hotel.
* * *
The boutique hotel in West Hollywood.
I got the location from Daniel Reed after all, not willingly, but because Abbie apparently told him he could share it for "practical purposes." I don't know what that means. I'm hoping it means she wants to see me.
It doesn't.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Valentine." The woman at the front desk has that particular expression of someone who's been trained to be polite while delivering bad news. "Ms. Montgomery has requested that no calls or visitors be sent through."
"I'm her husband."
"Yes, sir. I understand. But her instructions were clear."
"Can you call up? Tell her I'm here?"
She hesitates. "I really can't—"
"Please." I hate how desperate I sound. Grayson Valentine apparently never learned how to be a husband, so here we are. "Just tell her I'm in the lobby. If she doesn't want to see me, I'll go."
The woman picks up the phone. I wait. I wait at the desk, counting minutes.
The elevator doors open. Abbie steps out. She comes down in jeans and a plain sweater, eyes swollen from crying.
"Abbie—"
"Don't." She stops me at the revolving door, one hand raised like she's physically keeping me back. "Don't talk to me."
"I need to explain—"
"I said don't." Her voice shakes. "You haven't changed. You were a shitty husband and I'm tired and I'm choosing myself."
The words land like punches. Each one precise, each one exactly where it'll do the most damage.
"Okay," I say.
She blinks. "Okay?"
"I understand." I do. I didn't change. I just expected her to keep loving me anyway. "You're right."
"Don't—" She falters. "Don't just agree with me."
"You want me to argue? Tell you you're wrong? You're not wrong, Abbie. I forgot your birthday. I took money from your father and didn't tell you. I let you think the company mattered more than you did."
"It did matter more." Her eyes are wet. Green and wet and so tired. "You never came home. You never talked to me. You never—"
"I know."
"Stop saying that!"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I want you to—" She stops. Presses her hands to her face. When she drops them, she looks smaller somehow. "I want you to let me go."
"I can't sign a divorce."
"Gray—"
"I'm not refusing your right to one. I know I can't stop you legally. But I'm asking—" I step forward. She doesn't step back. "I'm asking for a year."
"A year."
"Separate lives. Still married. No contact from me unless you open it. One year to—" To what? To become a different person? To fix eight years of damage in twelve months? "to see if I can be better."
She laughs. It's not a happy sound. "You think you can change in a year?"
"You think I'm a terrible husband who won't." I hold her gaze. This is it. Everything riding on this moment, this ask, this one bet I'm making with my whole life. "Okay. Bet."
She stares at me for a long time.
"Fine," she says finally. "One year. But you don't call me. You don't show up at my hotel. You don't send messages through lawyers or friends or anyone else. If I want to talk to you, I'll find you."
"I understand."
"And at the end of the year, if I still want a divorce—"
"Then I sign."
She nods once, sharp and final. Then she turns around and walks back to the elevator. I watch her go. I stay in the lobby for five minutes after she leaves.
Then I get in my car and I start doing math. I think about the lobby this morning. The way Theo Marsh's face went white when he saw Delaney being escorted out. The quick glance she threw him, not panicked, not pleading. Knowing.
The baby’s not mine. I’ve never touched her. But Theo. Theo went white.
I don't have proof. Not yet.
But I'm pretty sure I know whose name should be on that birth certificate.