Chapter 2 - THE LETTER I WAS NEVER MEANT TO READ
“Open it, Grant.”
Natalie's voice was quiet, but the trembling in her hands told me how much those three words cost her.
Courtney reached for the yellowed envelope.
“That's private correspondence. You can't just—”
I moved it beyond her reach.
“Don't touch it.”
Five years ago, I would have defended Courtney without hesitation. She had been my loyal secretary, the woman who helped me survive my divorce, the person who convinced me Natalie had destroyed everything we built.
Now I was staring at my own signature on a letter I had never seen.
And Courtney was terrified.
I carefully broke the seal.
Inside was a single sheet of cream-colored stationery, folded twice.
I recognized Natalie's handwriting immediately.
Grant,
I know you told me never to contact you again. I know you believe I betrayed you.
But I went to the doctor yesterday.
I'm pregnant.
My knees nearly gave way.
I gripped the marble reception counter.
The lobby noise faded until I could hear nothing except my own breathing.
I don't know whether you'll believe this letter. I don't even know whether you'll want to know our child.
But please understand something. The man in those photographs was Elias Moreno. He was helping me investigate missing money from the employee fund.
Someone wanted you to believe I was unfaithful because I was getting too close to something dangerous.
I'm not asking you to take me back.
I'm asking you to look at the truth before more innocent people get hurt.
And whatever happens between us, our baby deserves better than this.
—Natalie
I read the letter twice.
Then a third time.
When I finally looked up, the smaller boy was pressing his battered teddy bear against his chest.
His brother stood protectively beside him.
Five years.
Five birthdays.
Five Christmas mornings.
Five years of scraped knees, bedtime stories, first words, and ordinary moments that could never be returned.
“Natalie,” I whispered. “You were pregnant when I sent you away?”
She nodded.
“I found out after the divorce.”
“And you tried to tell me.”
“I tried more than once.”
My eyes moved toward Courtney.
She had stepped backward, one hand gripping the strap of her expensive handbag.
“Courtney. Explain the signature.”
She swallowed.
“Grant, you signed hundreds of documents back then. You were devastated. Maybe you don't remember.”
“I remember what pen I used.”
“That doesn't prove anything.”
“No,” I said. “But your green fountain pen was the only one on the executive floor.”
Her expression hardened.
“Are you really going to accuse me of something because your ex-wife brought two children here?”
“Stop talking about my sons like they're evidence in an argument.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Natalie flinched.
The taller boy looked up.
“Mommy?”
She immediately crouched beside him.
“It's okay, Ben.”
He glanced toward me.
“Is he mad at us?”
Something broke inside my chest.
I knelt several feet away, careful not to approach without permission.
“No, buddy. I'm not mad at you.”
Ben studied me.
“Then why are you yelling?”
I had no answer that wouldn't shame me.
“Because I made a mistake,” I finally said. “A very big one.”
His little brother peeked around Natalie's arm.
“Are you the man in Mommy's picture?”
Natalie's face changed.
I turned toward her.
“What picture?”
She looked away.
“That isn't why we're here.”
“Natalie, please.”
She stood.
“The boys shouldn't have to listen to this.”
She was right.
I called the front desk manager, Rosa Delgado, who had worked at the Holloway Grand since our earliest years.
“Please make the family sitting room available. And bring some juice.”
Rosa's eyes widened when she recognized Natalie.
“Mrs. Holloway?”
“Natalie is fine, Rosa.”
The older woman looked at the children, then at me.
Something unreadable crossed her face.
“I'll take care of everything.”
Natalie guided Ben and his brother, Owen, toward the quieter sitting room just beyond the lobby.
Before following them, she turned back.
“You asked why I came.”
I waited.
“Willow House received a notice three days ago.”
I stared at her.
Willow House was the apartment building Natalie and I had established for retired hotel employees.
Twenty-four modest apartments.
A garden.
A communal kitchen.
A promise we'd made when we were young and couldn't afford much more than hope.
“What notice?”
“Eviction. The residents have thirty days to leave.”
“That building isn't for sale.”
“Someone disagrees.”
Courtney suddenly spoke.
“Grant, don't listen to her. She's twisting a routine property review.”
Natalie reached into her handbag and unfolded another piece of paper.
It was an authorization to transfer Willow House to a private investment company.
The document carried the Holloway Grand's official seal.
And beneath the approval line was a familiar signature.
Natalie Holloway.
I stared at the date.
Yesterday.
“Natalie couldn't have signed this,” I said.
“Of course I didn't.”
I looked at Courtney.
Her eyes moved toward the elevators.
“Courtney,” I said slowly, “who authorized the sale of my employees' homes?”
Before she could answer, a familiar voice spoke behind us.
“Actually, Grant, the authorization came from your office.”
I turned.
Martin Whitcomb, my chief financial officer of seventeen years, stood beside the elevator carrying a red leather folder.
He opened it.
“Your signature is on the original approval.”
Then he placed the document in front of me.
And there it was.
May you like
Not Natalie's signature.
Mine.
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