Chapter 6 - Shadows of the Past
Two months passed.
Winter had arrived in Boston, dusting the cobblestone streets of Back Bay in a soft layer of white snow.
The transformation of Carter & Co. into one of the most sought-after architectural firms in the region had been swift and breathtaking. Evelyn’s innovative, eco-friendly urban designs for the Seaport District had won critical acclaim from national architecture journals, and her firm had already taken over the top three floors of the newly renamed Carter Tower.
In a quiet suburban house on the outskirts of the city, far removed from the high-rise penthouses of Beacon Hill, Grant Whitmore sat alone in a small rented living room.
His personal assets had been heavily liquidated to pay off federal fines, legal settlements, and tax liabilities incurred during the Marcus Vance scandal. He was no longer a billionaire. He was no longer the CEO of Whitmore Development. He was a middle-aged man living on a modest corporate pension, forced to watch his former life play out on television screens.
His phone rang on the wooden side table.
Grant picked it up quickly, hoping against hope that the screen would show his daughter's name.
It was his mother, Margaret.
Grant let out a tired sigh, answering. "Hello, Mother."
"Grant," Margaret’s voice sounded thin, frail, and stripped of its former aristocratic bite. She was living in a small condo in Florida after Richard had officially filed for separation, unable to endure her relentless bitterness any longer. "Did you see the news? Evelyn is hosting the annual Civic Design Gala tonight at the Museum of Fine Arts. Your father was invited. My friends were invited. And we are stuck here!"
"Stop watching the news, Mother," Grant said quietly, looking out his frosted window at the gray street. "Leave her alone."
"Leave her alone?!" Margaret gasped. "She took your company! She took your prestige! And Sophie... Sophie won't even send me a Christmas card!"
"Sophie won't send you a card because you spent twelve years telling her she wasn't good enough because she wasn't a boy," Grant said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "We did this, Mother. You and me. We drove everyone who actually loved us away."
"Grant Edward Whitmore—"
"Goodbye, Mother," Grant said, hanging up the phone for the first time in his life without waiting for her permission.
He stood up, walked over to his closet, and pulled out a simple black suit—not designer, not bespoke, but clean and neat.
Tonight was the Civic Design Gala.
May you like
He knew he wasn't invited. He knew he would be an outcast, a ghost at his own former feast. But he didn't care about the press, the society reporters, or his former corporate peers.
He needed to see his daughter. He needed to say the words he should have said on the floor of the divorce courtroom two months ago.
