Chapter 7 - The Last Plea
The palace security officers had escorted Grant into the private marble gallery adjoining the ballroom, away from the eyes of the international press. Four armed royal guards stood at attention near the doors.
When I stepped into the gallery, my emerald train rustling softly against the polished marble floor, Grant turned around instantly.
He froze.
He stared at me—at the silver tiara glittering on my head, at the emerald gown, at the absolute, unshakeable aura of royal authority that surrounded me.
"Emma..." Grant breathed out, his voice cracking with emotion. He took a fast step forward, but the guards immediately crossed their ceremonial halberds, blocking his path. "Emma, please! Let me talk to you!"
I stopped ten feet away, flanked by Count Alexander and Lord Henrik.
"You have two minutes, Mr. Caldwell," I said, my voice cold and crisp as mountain ice. "Speak."
Grant fell to his knees on the marble floor, completely unbothered by the guards watching him. Tears welled in his red-rimmed eyes.
"Emma, I am begging you," Grant wept, holding his hands out. "Our family is destroyed. The banks have seized our house in Newport. My mother is living in a hotel, and the Federal Trade Commission has opened a fraud investigation into our corporate records! We have nothing left!"
"You had everything, Grant," I replied quietly. "You had a prosperous firm, a respected name, and a woman who loved you enough to build a simple, quiet life with you. You threw it all away because you thought cruelly treating me made you look powerful."
"I was stupid! I was weak!" Grant cried out, slamming his fists against the floor. "My mother controlled me! She made me think that if I didn't enforce her rules, she would cut me out of the family trust! I didn't want to lock you outside, Emma! It was Brooke! Brooke did it!"
"And you let her," I said, stepping forward until I was just inches from the guards' crossed weapons. "You stood in your warm dressing room, adjusted your cuff links, and told me to stop making everything harder. You chose your family's vanity over my dignity."
Grant looked up at me, his face desperate. "We can rebuild it, Emma! You have thirty million dollars in the trust! You have the King's backing! If you just issue a public statement saying it was a private disagreement, the banks will release our assets! We can get married right here in Valberg! I'll move here! I'll do whatever you want!"
I looked at him, feeling no anger, no vengeance, and no lingering grief.
There was only a vast, empty space where my love for him used to live.
"I am opening the Whitmore Architectural Preservation Center at Oceancrest next month, Grant," I told him calmly. "Your former estate will be a public institution dedicated to teaching young, underfunded students how to preserve history. My father will be the lead director."
Grant gasped, his eyes wide with horror. "You... you're turning our home into a public school?"
"A school where people who have nothing are given every opportunity to succeed," I corrected. "Something your family never understood."
I turned my back on him.
"Guards," Lord Henrik commanded, "escort Mr. Caldwell to the airport. Ensure he is placed on the first available flight out of our sovereign airspace."
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"Emma! No! Emma, look at me! EMMA!" Grant screamed as the four large guards hoisted him up by his arms and dragged him backward through the gallery doors.
His desperate shouts echoed down the hallway until the heavy oak doors swung shut, sealing the gallery in absolute, peaceful silence.
