Chapter 47
Richard's POV
I hesitated for a moment, about to chase after her, but my father stopped me.
"Dad, are we really going to give her fifty percent of the shares?"
I suddenly realized my mother was right—Grace had been spoiled, which made her increasingly reckless.
"Of course not." My father snorted coldly, a sinister gleam flashing in his eyes. "The shares promised to Grace haven't been transferred yet and can be revoked at any time. As for that ten percent, it's just a backup plan."
His words brought me back to reality. The shares were just a smokescreen—the real purpose was to delay her departure.
The best outcome would be to get Grace back to work at the company. But if that couldn't be achieved, we absolutely couldn't let her leave with company data and project resources.
My father continued: "I'm going out of town for a few days to meet some old friends. Harrison Group doesn't need Grace as much as she thinks, but I hope you can resolve the family matters before I return."
"I understand."
I immediately grasped his meaning.
Although my father had semi-retired these years, his influence in the industry remained strong. His network and connections far exceeded what Grace could reach.
However, Grace's abilities were indeed crucial to the company. Stabilizing her was undoubtedly the most effortless approach.
Since Grace was stubborn and responded better to gentle persuasion than force, I would have to... play the emotional card again.
After all, for a woman who had once given me her whole heart, winning her back was just a matter of time.
---
In the evening, I went straight to Grace's bedroom as soon as I got home, hoping she might have returned.
But opening the door revealed the same empty room.
Since she left, the servants still cleaned the room spotlessly every day. But she had left so decisively and truly never came back even once.
Empty in ways that exceeded my expectations.
I pushed open the closet doors, intending to grab a clean shirt for tomorrow's early meeting. But something made me stop in my tracks.
My custom suits hung neatly, just as they always had. But there were subtle differences I'd never noticed before. The charcoal Armani I'd worn for the Morrison deal—the sleeve length had been adjusted. The navy Tom Ford from the charity gala—the shoulders fit much better now.
"Sir?" The housekeeper's voice came from behind me. She stood in the doorway, looking apologetic. "I heard movement. Is everything alright?"
"These suits," I said slowly, running my fingers along the fabric. "When were they altered?"
Her expression grew careful. "Long ago, Mrs. Harrison noticed you favored certain cuts. She had them adjusted according to your preferences."
"All of them?"
"Most of them, sir. She studied how you moved in them, which ones you'd choose first. She said..." She paused, seeming to weigh her words. "She said she wanted you to feel confident."
My throat tightened. I pulled out a black jacket that I'd once complimented at a restaurant. Now it fit perfectly, tailored exactly to my measurements.
"She never mentioned it."
"No, sir. She preferred to work quietly."
I stared at the clothes—dozens of pieces, all quietly perfected. All done in silence, without recognition or thanks.
What else had I missed?
The study felt suffocating as I sat behind my desk, trying to focus on quarterly reports. But my eyes kept drifting to the leather chair across from me—Grace's chair during our late-night strategy sessions.
I opened the bottom drawer to organize some documents and froze.
A notebook I'd never seen before lay there. Grace's handwriting covered the pages in neat, precise lines.
Richard's Schedule - Week of March 15th
Monday: 7 AM coffee (medium roast, two sugars). Stress level: high. Prepared chamomile tea for evening. Left protein bars in briefcase.
Tuesday: Worked until 11 PM. Noticed tension in shoulders. Arranged massage appointment. Cancelled when he said he was too busy.
Page after page of observations. My preferences. My habits.
My chest felt tight. Every entry was dated, detailed, caring. She'd been watching over me, trying to help in ways I'd never realized.
---
I closed the notebook and leaned back in my chair, memories flooding back.
Last spring's industry gala. Grace had spent weeks preparing—not just her dress or hair, but research. She'd compiled detailed profiles of every major attendee, their business interests, their personal connections to our company.
I'd barely looked up from my phone. "You don't need to worry about business strategy, Grace. Just look beautiful and let me handle the networking."
The hurt that flashed across her face had been so brief, I'd convinced myself I'd imagined it.
But she'd gone anyway. Spent the entire evening making connections, smoothing over potential conflicts with various companies.
And I'd taken all the credit. Told my father it was my strategic networking that sealed those deals.
She never corrected me.
How many times had she done this? How many of my "successes" were actually hers?
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
I'd been living off her intelligence for years.
Every major client relationship, every successful negotiation, every strategic move that had impressed my father—Grace had been the invisible architect behind it all.
And what had I given her in return?
Condescension. Dismissal. The constant message that she wasn't smart enough, wasn't business-minded enough, wasn't enough.
She was everything, and I made her feel like nothing.
I reached for my phone, wanting to call her.
The phone felt heavy in my hand. I set it down without dialing.
Some damage couldn't be undone with words.