Chapter 148 David's Downfall
David: POV
Charlotte's words hung in the air, and I felt something twist in my gut. The way she looked at me—like I was nothing, like I was garbage—made my blood boil.
"Charlotte," I said, forcing my voice to stay level, "we need to talk. There has to be room for discussion here."
She didn't even look at me. Just turned her head away, her profile cold and perfect against the light streaming through the manor windows.
That lawyer of hers—Rachel something—stepped forward before I could say anything else.
"The law protects property, not emotions, Mr. Grant."
I clenched my jaw so hard I thought my teeth might crack. "But she has a legal obligation to support me! If she kicks me out, I can sue her for abandonment!"
Fuck. I was losing control of this situation, and everyone in the room could see it.
Rachel's expression didn't change. Professional. Unmoved. "Support doesn't necessarily mean keeping you in close proximity. A nursing home with adequate care is also a perfectly acceptable arrangement."
A nursing home? Was she fucking serious?
Charlotte stood then, rising from that velvet armchair like some kind of queen ascending her throne. Her voice cut through the room, sharp and clear.
"Or we go to court. I'll not only evict all of you, but I'll also demand you return every cent of company profits you've illegally appropriated over the years."
My face burned. I could feel the heat spreading from my collar to my hairline.
"Charlotte, what gives you the right—"
"Because I'm the only one here with the Caldwell name!" She swept her gaze across the room, and I swear to God, it felt like being sliced open. "Court or get out. Choose."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Susan clutched at my arm, her perfectly manicured nails digging into my suit jacket.
Amy stood frozen, looking between us like she couldn't comprehend what was happening. And Paul—useless fucking Paul—just stood there with his mouth hanging open.
I stared at Charlotte, this girl I'd raised, this girl I'd controlled for twenty-five years, and felt something I hadn't felt in decades.
Fear. Real, gut-churning fear. She meant it. Every goddamn word.
"Paul," Amy suddenly grabbed her brother's arm, shaking him. "Say something! Why aren't you saying anything?"
Charlotte laughed. Actually laughed. The sound was cold and sharp as broken glass.
"A bastard with no legitimate claim—what exactly do you expect him to say? Does he even have the right to bark at me?"
"Charlotte, you—" Amy started, her voice rising.
"Emily!" I snapped, cutting her off.
My daughter flinched, but I didn't care. I turned back to Charlotte, forcing my voice into something that might pass for reasonable, even though rage was pounding through my skull like a hammer.
I couldn't go to court. A lawsuit would expose everything—the offshore accounts, the redirected funds, the years of creative accounting. If Charlotte pushed this, I wouldn't just lose the manor and the company.
I'd lose everything. Maybe even my freedom.
"Charlotte," I said carefully, "is there really no room for negotiation here?"
She looked away, her jaw set.
Damn her. Damn her stubborn Caldwell pride.
"Fine," I said through gritted teeth. Each word felt like swallowing glass. "We'll move out. But there's so much to pack—furniture, personal items, twenty years of belongings. Give me seven days. Just seven days to properly vacate."
Susan and Amy erupted immediately.
"What? We're really leaving?"
"We've lived here for over ten years!"
"Where are we supposed to go?"
"This is our home!"
Their voices overlapped, rising in pitch and desperation. I wanted to slap them both into silence.
"Enough!" I roared, and they shut up. Finally.
I turned back to Charlotte, lowering my voice. Almost pleading. "Seven days. That's all I'm asking. Surely that's reasonable."
Charlotte's eyes flickered toward that Parker woman—Olivia.
Still weak. Still needing someone else to tell her what to do.
But before I could feel any satisfaction at that thought, Olivia stepped forward.
Her hands were clasped in front of her, professional and composed. But her eyes... fuck, her eyes were cold as ice.
"Ms. Caldwell moves in tonight," she announced. "You leave. Now."
"That's impossible!" Susan shrieked.
"We still have belongings here!" I protested. "Personal items that need to be—"
"Based on what?" Olivia's voice cut through my words like a knife through butter. "Based on your affair during your marriage? Based on your illegitimate son being older than Ms. Caldwell? Based on Ms. Sullivan being your mistress? Based on Ms. Caldwell being the sole legal heir to this estate?"
Each accusation landed like a punch to the gut. My face went hot, then cold, then hot again.
She was laying it all out. Every dirty secret. Every carefully hidden truth.
Olivia's sharp gaze swept over us, and I felt like an insect under a microscope. "Leave on your own, or we'll escort you out. Your choice."
"We still have things here!" I tried again, grasping at anything that might buy me time. "Clothes, documents, personal effects—you can't expect us to just abandon everything!"
Seven days. I just needed seven days. Time to transfer assets, hide money, call in favors. Time to figure out how to fight back.
But Olivia wasn't budging.
"That's your problem, Mr. Grant."
I took a step back, feeling the ground shift beneath me. "Charlotte, please. Five days. Three days. Just give me three days to arrange somewhere to go. You can't expect us to be homeless—"
Olivia shifted, physically blocking my view of Charlotte. Like I was a threat. Like I was dangerous.
"That's your concern, not ours."
Then she turned, and her next words came out like military commands.
"Michael, escort them out. Immediately."
That bodyguard moved forward, his face blank but his intent crystal clear. Two other security guys flanked him, all of them advancing on us like we were criminals.
"You can't do this—" I started, but then hands grabbed my arms.
"Get off me!" I struggled, but it was useless. They were dragging me toward the door.
Susan was screaming. Amy was crying. Paul was trying to pull free, his face red with humiliation.
We were being thrown out of our own home like common trash.
The household staff stood frozen in the hallway—Gerald the butler, Maria the cook, all the maids I'd employed for years. They just watched, their faces carefully neutral.
Cowards. All of them.
Gerald stepped forward hesitantly as we were dragged past. "Ms. Caldwell, we still haven't received our final wages—"
"Your employers are Mr. Grant and Ms. Sullivan," Olivia cut him off, her voice flat. "Ms. Caldwell never employed you. If you have wage disputes, take them up with your actual employers."
She paused, and her next words carried a clear threat. "And if you dare harass Ms. Caldwell about this, you'll be dealing with our legal team."
Gerald's face went white. He stepped back, hands raised in surrender.
The security guards hauled us through the foyer, past the sitting room where Charlotte sat watching like some kind of empress surveying her conquered territory.
I caught one last glimpse of her before they shoved us out the front door—sitting on that velvet sofa, her eyes fixed on Olivia's back with something like worship in her expression.
The door slammed behind us. I heard the lock click.
We stood on the front steps—me, Susan, Amy, and Paul—staring at the closed door of Caldwell Manor like refugees.
"What... what do we do now?" Susan's voice was small, frightened.
I didn't have an answer.
The news hit within hours.
My phone started buzzing before we'd even made it to a hotel. Text messages. Emails. News alerts.
Caldwell Industries Chairman David Grant Evicted from Family Estate by Daughter
By the time we checked into a cheap motel on the outskirts of town—the only place that would take us without a credit check—the internet was on fire.
#ChairmanEvicted
#CaldwellHeiress
#DavidGrantAffair
#IllegitimateSonOlderThanHeir
Every dirty secret I'd spent decades burying was being dragged into the light.
Photos of Susan from twenty years ago, when she'd been my secretary. Photos of Emily's funeral, with Susan standing too close to me. Photos of Paul at various ages, with captions pointing out he was older than Charlotte.
Someone had compiled every piece of damaging information and released it strategically, keeping the scandal fresh and trending.
I knew exactly who.
Olivia fucking Parker.
Susan sat on the motel bed, scrolling through her phone with tears streaming down her face. "They're saying such horrible things about me. About us."
"Stop reading it," I snapped, but I couldn't take my own advice. "I'll find a way to turn this all around."