Chapter 2 - The Spoiled Prince’s Morning From Hell
Grant Holloway woke up at 6:15 AM with a pounding headache and a blonde woman sobbing into his chest. For 10 seconds, he forgot what had happened. Then he smelled the blood on the rug, saw the diamond ring glinting on the hardwood floor, and remembered: Vivian had caught them. She’d slapped Vanessa. He’d shoved her. She’d hit her head. She’d typed something on her phone and walked out like a ghost.
He’d laughed about it 10 minutes later, when Vanessa finally stopped hyperventilating. “She’s just being dramatic,” he’d said, kicking the ring across the floor. “She’s got no one but me. She’ll come crawling back by noon. She always does.”
Now, staring at his phone—88 missed calls, a dozen texts from his lawyer, a WSJ alert with his face on the front page—he realized he’d never been more wrong in his life.
“Grant,” Vanessa whined, sitting up and rubbing her red, puffy eyes. Her hair was a mess, her makeup was smudged, and she was still wearing Vivian’s $4,000 silk robe like it was hers. “My Instagram is gone. My TikTok is gone. My brand manager just texted me—all my deals are canceled. The skincare line, the fitness app, the hair vitamins—all of them. They said I’m ‘toxic.’ What did she do?”
Grant didn’t answer. He stumbled out of bed, grabbing his phone and trying to log into his Meridian email. Invalid credentials. He tried the bank app. Account frozen. He called his assistant. The number you have reached is no longer in service. He ran to the closet, grabbing his custom Tom Ford suit—his favorite, the one he’d worn to the White House Correspondents’ Dinner last year—and the pocket inside was empty. No wallet, no credit cards, no driver’s license. Vivian had taken them. She’d taken everything.
“Get dressed,” he snapped at Vanessa, yanking open his nightstand drawer and grabbing the $147 in cash he kept for tips. “We’re going to the office. I’m going to fire every last one of those ungrateful pricks and fix this.”
Vanessa stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Grant, the power just went out. The heat’s off. And my car—my Honda—it’s not in the driveway. Did she have it towed?”
Grant ran to the window. Sure enough, the four-car garage was empty. No Ferrari, no Range Rover, no Tesla, no Honda. Vivian had had them all towed to a storage unit 45 minutes away, titles transferred to her name before the sun came up. The only thing left in the driveway was the beat-up old pickup truck the gardener used, and the keys were gone.
“This is a nightmare,” Vanessa sobbed, collapsing onto the bed. “She’s ruining my life. I’m supposed to be at a launch party in Miami next week! My entire brand is gone!”
Grant wanted to scream. He wanted to punch something. He wanted Vivian to walk through that door, apologize for being “crazy,” and fix all of this like she always did. For 10 years, she’d been his safety net. He’d flunk out of law school? She’d talked the dean into letting him retake his exams. He’d lost $2M on a bad real estate deal? She’d restructured Meridian’s entire portfolio to cover it before anyone noticed. He’d forgotten their anniversary, her birthday, his own mother’s birthday? She’d bought the gifts, written the cards, lied to everyone to make him look like the perfect husband.
She was supposed to be his doormat. His quiet, brilliant, invisible little wife who did all the work and let him take all the credit. She wasn’t supposed to fight back.
They walked three miles to the nearest Starbucks—Grant in his $2,000 silk pajamas and bare feet, Vanessa in Vivian’s robe and a pair of Grant’s old sneakers—so he could use the Wi-Fi to call his lawyer, Arthur Hale. Arthur picked up on the first ring, his voice tight and furious.
“Grant, what the hell did you do?” Arthur barked. “I just got off the phone with the SEC. They’re launching a full investigation into the Holloway Foundation. The WSJ has receipts—actual receipts—for $2.3M in fake payments to a shell company owned by Vanessa. Did you forge Vivian’s signature on those tax forms? Tell me you didn’t.”
Grant’s blood ran cold. “Vivian gave me permission! She handles all the finances—she told me to sign whatever I wanted!”
“Bullshit,” Arthur said. “I just pulled Meridian’s corporate records. Vivian owns 92% of the voting stock. You own 2%—a gift she gave you on your first wedding anniversary. The other 6% is split between the board, every single one of whom she personally hired and mentored. They just voted unanimously to remove you as CEO, effective immediately. You don’t work there anymore, Grant. You never really did. You were just a pretty face she put on the cover of Forbes.”
Vanessa, who’d been listening over Grant’s shoulder, let out a shriek so loud the other Starbucks customers turned to stare. “You told me you owned the company! You said she was just a secretary!”
Grant ignored her. “Arthur, fix this. Sue her. She can’t do this—we’re married! Half of everything is mine!”
Arthur laughed. It was a cold, ugly sound. “Read the prenup you signed, you idiot. The one Vivian’s lawyer made you sign the night before the wedding, when you were so drunk you could barely stand up. If either of you commits adultery or domestic violence, the wronged party gets 100% of all assets acquired during the marriage. And I just got an email from her legal team with photos of the gash on her head, the blood on your rug, and a security cam clip of you shoving her into that nightstand. She’s filing for divorce today on grounds of extreme cruelty and adultery. You’re not getting half of anything, Grant. You’re lucky if you don’t end up in jail.”
He hung up.
Grant stared at his phone, his hands shaking. He looked at Vanessa, who was now screaming at him about lies and ruined futures, and for the first time in his life, he felt true, gut-wrenching terror. Vivian wasn’t just his wife. She was the architect of every single thing he’d ever had. And she’d just knocked down the entire house with him inside it.
May you like
He grabbed the $147 out of his pocket, threw it on the Starbucks counter for two black coffees, and pulled up Vivian’s contact. He called her again. And again. And again. Straight to voicemail, every time.
He didn’t know it yet, but this was only the beginning. Vivian hadn’t just ruined his morning. She’d spent 10 years planning his downfall, and she was just getting started.
