I was the quiet wife he had rescued from an ordinary life.
He never asked why his company survived every financial crisis.
He never questioned why anonymous investment committees approved emergency funding no conventional bank would touch.
He never wondered why suppliers continued extending credit after three failed developments, two lawsuits, and a disastrous hotel acquisition in Georgia.
Grant assumed his charm opened doors.
In reality, I had been standing behind every one of them.
Bellamy Holdings—the billion-dollar corporation keeping his company alive—belonged to me.
My grandfather founded it.
My father expanded it.
And after a tragedy the public believed had killed him, controlling ownership passed into a family trust under my birth name.
Seraphina Bellamy.
Grant knew me only as Seraphina Bellamy Holloway, a woman he believed had inherited nothing more valuable than good manners and an old-fashioned last name.
I kept my position private because I wanted a husband who loved me rather than my balance sheet.
