I put him on speaker.
“Naomi,” he said, his voice low and rushed, “you should cooperate before this turns ugly.”
Lila rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might hurt herself.
“Grant,” I said, “you walked into my house this afternoon and stood there while your wife tried to evict me. We’re already past ugly.”
“This isn’t Amber’s doing. Russell’s in charge here.”
“No,” I said. “Russell funds the performance. Amber directs it. You just carry props.”
He exhaled sharply. “You always have to make people feel small.”
“That’s an interesting accusation from a man who married someone young enough to mistake cruelty for charm.”
Silence.
Then he said, “There’s going to be a lockout proceeding on Friday.”
“Is there?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
I smiled at the darkening windows. “Then tell Russell to read paragraph fourteen of the collateral assignment he purchased.”
The line went quiet.
Grant hadn’t read the documents. Of course he hadn’t. Grant never read anything unless there was a signature line and someone richer standing nearby.
“What paragraph?” he asked.
“Exactly,” I said, and hung up.
Lila laughed, but only for a moment. “Do you think Russell knows?”
“He knows enough to be dangerous and not enough to be safe.”
By nine, I had three calls from attorneys, two from reporters, one from a city council member pretending concern, and a text from Amber that read: Enjoy your last night in that house.
I didn’t reply.
Instead, I drove myself to the downtown office tower where Thorne Urban Holdings still occupied the top two floors, though most people assumed I had stepped back from active operations after the divorce. That assumption worked in my favor. Quiet women were underestimated women.
My general counsel, Daniel Mercer, met me in the conference room. Fifty-eight, immaculate, and incapable of panic, Daniel had been with me since my third acquisition and my first serious lawsuit.
He reviewed the papers Amber had served, page by page, then removed his glasses.
