Chapter 200

Grandfather glared at Logan, and Logan glared right back.

“You would risk throwing away everything we’ve worked for… over a woman?” Grandfather asked.

“For Hazel,” Logan said, enunciating each word slowly, for emphasis. “My wife.”

For one moment, a wild look of fury crossed over Grandfather’s face. In a flash, however, it was gone. In its place was an eerie calm. Grandfather had become a statue with an ice cold voice and eyes that could frost anyone over.

“I want this woman’s full name and birthday in my inbox tonight,” Grandfather said.

“Running a background check on her?” Logan asked.

“If she has nothing to hide, then you have nothing to worry about.”

Grandfather didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he turned and walked out.

When he was gone from earshot, Tina started laughing.

“What’s so damn funny?” Dylan asked her.

“This whole display was highly amusing,” Tina said. “Here I’ve been thinking that I need to devise ways to ruin your life, and you are out here doing it all on your own.”

Tina tapped the side of her glass with her ring finger. The clank brought forth a servant with a bottle of wine. After they filled her glass, she lifted it up as if she was toasting Logan.

“Here’s to your own downfall, Logan,” she said and drank. Then she laughed again. “Honestly, I’m going to enjoy the show.”

Dylan stood from the table and came to stand beside Logan.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dylan said.

Logan agreed.

Together, they walked toward the front door. Behind them, Tina laughed and laughed.

Out in the driveway, Grandfather’s sedan was still in the driveway, the driver only now pulling it forward around the bend.

Grandfather, in the backseat, was already on the phone. He glanced at Logan through the window, but just as quickly looked away.

“Who do you think he’s calling?” Dylan asked.

“I don’t know,” Logan said. “But it can’t be good.”

Realizing he’d better call Hazel to warn her, he grabbed his phone from his pocket and dialed her number.

The phone rang and rang, but Hazel did not answer.

Worry began to claw up the inside of Logan’s throat.

“What is it?” Dylan asked.

“She’s not answering.”

“Try again.”

So Logan did. Again and again, eventually separating his calls by ten, then twenty minutes. For hours. Eventually, her phone stopped ringing and only the voicemail picked up.

I woke up a bit hungover, but mostly sad. My girls’ night the evening before hadn’t been as enjoyable as I’d hoped. I drank as much, but being excluded from most of the conversation just made me feel more alone than I’d felt before calling them.

Really, I just wanted to go home. But Logan told me to wait, so I would wait.

My alarm blared again, louder, and I groaned as I pulled myself out of bed. In the shower, I stood under the coldest water I could manage, hoping to wake up. It did the job enough for me to hustle the rest of my morning routine, not wanting to be late for work.

When I reached for my phone in the usual spot at my bedside, it wasn’t there. Retracing my footsteps, I found my phone near where I had left my laptop the night before. The battery was dead.

Great.

Well, there’d be time to charge it later.

I grabbed my coat, kicked on my shoes, and headed out the door.

The drive to work was so short that my phone only had time to charge to 5%. That probably wouldn’t even survive the startup, so I threw it into my purse, determined to worry about it later.

As soon as I walked into the office, I can tell something was different. People weren’t talking as much. No one was perched by the watercooler eager to talk about what they did over the weekend. Everyone sat very prim and proper at their desks, already hard at work 5 minutes before start time.

I was curious about what was going on, but with a mood like a funeral home in this office, I decided it was better to just head to my desk. My co-workers could fill me in at break time.

That was what I thought.

Only when I arrived at my desk, my boss stood in front of my chair, as if he was waiting for me.

I checked my watch again. I wasn’t late.

“Morning…” I said to him as I approached, uncertain.

“You are needed for a meeting, Hazel. First thing. Meeting room 5.”

Odd for the boss not to even return my good morning. This must have been something very serious indeed. I start to put down my purse.

“Take it with you,” the boss said.

I froze. “My… purse?” I had the distinct impression that I was about to be fired.

But for what? I hadn’t done anything wrong, as far as I knew. Unless there were some kind of secret rules for this office that had been different from those at the previous location. But even then, someone should have told me about them.

“Meeting room 5,” he repeated.

I guessed that was my only path to answers. “Okay… Thanks…”

Turning around, I walked back the way I had come. The meeting rooms were on the other side of the office. My co-worker’s curious glances followed me the entire way.

Did any of them have any idea what I was about to walk into? It would have been nice if they would have warned me. Though, I supposed, I could never really seem to make friends in this office.

Meeting room 5 had no interior windows, not even in the door. I stopped outside of it to take a steadying breath. What could possibly be waiting for me inside?

Courage gathered, I gripped the handle and pushed open the door.

Inside, already sitting, were a group full of smartly-dressed men and women. Their outfits looked expensive. Their laptops definitely were. They all wore stern, serious expressions. In unison, their gazes snapped to me as soon as I opened the door.

I was immediately unnerved.

“Uh… Am I in the right place?” I asked.

The man at the head of the long meeting room table sat up. “Hazel Whitaker?”

“Yes?”

The man gestured for the one open seat remaining – at the far end of the table, opposite him.

“Sit,” he said. He stayed standing, continuing to gesture, until I moved to that chair and sat down. Then he sat down too.

I swallowed hard, having a nine pairs of eyes all on me. No one was saying anything; they were just staring. The only one who was actually moving was the man who had spoken. He flipped open a folder in front of him.

The awkwardness was starting to get to me. “Nice weather, huh?” I tried.

None of their expressions changed. No one humored me at all with a reply.

“Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Whitaker,” said the man at the head of the table. “My name is Leonardo Smith. I am an attorney for Hatfield Supply.” He gestured to the people sitting on his left and right, down the sides of the table. “These are my associates.”

They all nodded.

“Nice to meet you,” I said politely, even as a cold child rushed down my spine. “But I’m afraid I don’t know what this is about, Mr. Smith.”

“Today we are not here on behalf of the company,” Mr. Smith said. “But personally representing Mr. Hatfield Senior.”

Logan’s grandfather?

“Regarding…?” I asked.

Mr. Smith looked at me with a cool, indifferent expression. “Your immediate divorce from his grandson Logan.”