“Well, well,” Mark drawled, taking a sip of his drink. “The cavalry has arrived.”
Behind him, Vanessa stepped into view. She was already dressed for the day in a tight designer dress, dripping in diamonds, her lips painted a severe, blood red. She looked me up and down with open disgust, assessing the price of my suit and finding it wanting.
“Is this about Anna?” she sighed, crossing her arms. “Because honestly, Mr. Calloway, she really should get professional help. The voicemails she’s been leaving…”
I didn’t answer. I stepped over the threshold, invading their space without invitation.
Mark’s smile tightened, the edges of his confidence fraying just a millimeter. “Careful, Arthur. This is private property. You can’t just barge in here.”
“So was the house you sold on Maple Drive,” I said, my voice dead flat.
Mark let out a short, mocking laugh. “Oh, please. Anna signed everything. The notary verified it. The bank cleared it. It’s done.”
“She says she didn’t.”
“She says a lot of things!” Mark snapped, taking a step forward. “Listen to me, old man. Your daughter is broken. She’s emotional. She’s completely unreliable. The courts understand that. They saw right through her.”
Vanessa stepped past him, walking to a marble island in the kitchen to pour herself a glass of champagne, even though it was barely nine in the morning. “Poor thing,” she cooed, her back to me. “Some women just can’t handle the pressure. They can’t keep a husband happy.”
I ignored the bait. I slowly scanned the room. The sprawling Italian leather sofa. The expensive abstract paintings on the walls. The floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. And there, on a silver side table, were framed photographs. Mark and Vanessa in Paris. Mark and Vanessa on a yacht. Mark, Vanessa, and Emma at a gala.
In every single photo, Emma was staring blankly at the camera. She wasn’t smiling in a single one.
The sight of my granddaughter, looking like a prop in their stolen life, sent a spike of pure, unadulterated fury through my veins. Not visibly. I did not shout. I did not strike him, though my knuckles ached to shatter his jaw. Rage is a useless emotion unless it is sharpened into a blade.
“Where is my granddaughter?” I asked.
“At school,” Mark said breezily. “A proper, private academy. Not the kind of public trash Anna could afford while living out of a homeless shelter.”
