“That is not fair.”
“Did you tell her I would be happier if she lived away?”
Silence.
“Marissa.”
“I said it might reduce conflict.”
Grant turned away.
He put both hands on the kitchen counter.
For a moment he saw his reflection in the dark window.
Forty-two.
Successful beyond anything his younger self imagined.
Founder of a company worth $8.4 billion.
A private jet.
Three homes.
A foundation operating in twelve states.
And his daughter had spent months believing she was the obstacle preventing him from having a normal life.
Money had allowed Grant to outsource almost everything.
Driving.
Scheduling.
Cleaning.
Travel planning.
Meals.
Security.
Eventually, without admitting it, he had outsourced presence.
Marissa had stepped into the empty space.
He had liked the relief.
That mattered.
He turned back.
“Did you forge messages from me to Rosa?”
Marissa went still.
He saw the answer.
“Did you?”
“I sent messages from the household account.”
“As me?”
“She was ignoring my authority.”
“As me?”
Marissa’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you delete her calls?”
“I managed your household communications because you asked me to.”
“I asked you to manage scheduling.”
“You were drowning.”
“So you lied.”
“I protected our family.”
“No.”
Grant’s voice became cold.
“You protected your control.”
Marissa folded her arms.
“What happens now?”
The question was so businesslike that it almost relieved him.
Grant could answer business.
“You leave tonight.”
She stared.
“Excuse me?”
“Patrice will contact your lawyer tomorrow.”
“Patrice?”
“Yes.”
“You called an attorney before speaking to me?”
“I spoke to Ellie first.”
Marissa’s face hardened.
“Of course.”
Grant ignored it.
“You’ll stay at the Greenwich Hotel or the apartment.”
“This is my home.”
“It was mine before marriage.”
“I have marital rights.”
“You probably do.”
His calm unsettled her.
“I’m not changing locks tonight.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“I am telling you that Ellie will not spend tonight under the same roof as you.”
“You think I’m dangerous?”
Grant took a long breath.
“I think she is afraid of you.”
Marissa’s expression collapsed.
“I have never hit that child.”
“I know.”
“I have never starved her.”
“You put her lunch in a dog bowl.”
“It was one punishment.”
“You wanted photographic evidence.”
“She has behavioral problems.”
Grant stared.
“You still believe that.”
“Yes.”
Marissa’s tears came faster.
“Because you refuse to see them.”
“No.”
Grant shook his head.
“I believe she has grief.”
“She manipulates.”
“She is six.”
“Again.”
“Yes.”