“Grandpa… what money?”
My voice barely came out.
His smile slowly disappeared.
“Claire,” he said, confused, “I’ve been sending that money since the day you married Mark.”
I blinked.
“Every… month?”
He nodded.
“I reminded your mother several times to make sure you were receiving the transfers.”
My throat tightened.
“Grandpa… I never got anything.”
Silence fell over the room.
Heavy.
Crushing.
The warmth in his face vanished.
Replaced by something I had never seen before.
Anger.
“Claire,” he said slowly, “are you telling me you haven’t received a single payment?”
I shook my head.
“Not one.”
Before either of us could say another word, the door burst open.
My husband, Mark Sullivan, walked in.
Behind him—his mother, Vivian Sullivan.
Both of them were carrying armfuls of shopping bags.
Luxury brands.
Designer stores.
The kind of things I had only ever seen in magazines.
They were laughing.
Talking excitedly.
“Claire!” Mark said cheerfully. “You won’t believe the deals we found on Rodeo Drive—”
Then he saw my grandfather.
And froze.
Vivian’s face drained of color.
One of the bags slipped from her hands and hit the floor.
The room went completely silent.
My grandfather spoke first.
His voice was calm.