Chapter 49: Grant Holloway Flung Open the Bedroom Door

Grant Holloway flung open the bedroom door.

He tore through the wardrobe in a frenzy before storming into Clara Whitmore's private walk-in closet. All the designer bags, clothes, watches, and jewelry he'd given her remained perfectly arranged.

Not a single item was missing.

His gaze locked onto a cherry charm bracelet.

His breathing turned ragged. Bloodshot veins appeared in his eyes.

This was the birthday gift he'd brought back from Paris during their third year together.

Cherry. Cherish.

When he'd clasped it around her wrist, he'd whispered she was the most precious person in his life.

Clara had smiled until her eyes crinkled like crescent moons. She'd barely taken it off since.

Now it lay abandoned in the jewelry box like a discarded vow.

Grant staggered and collapsed onto the bed.

Finally, he understood. Clara wasn't throwing a tantrum.

She'd truly left him.

* * *

A thunderous crash echoed from downstairs.

Mrs. Palmer nearly dropped her cleaning rag in fright. She rushed upstairs.

As she turned the corridor, she collided with Grant charging out of the closet. The man's expression was terrifyingly dark, his aura suffocating.

"Young master—"

Before she could finish, he brushed past without a glance, vanishing down the stairs.

Mrs. Palmer peered into the closet and gasped.

The jewelry cabinet lay shattered. Unworn couture gowns with tags still attached littered the floor. Shards of glass glittered coldly across the Persian rug under the lights.

Remembering the spoiled porridge turning rancid in the kitchen, Mrs. Palmer felt dizzy.

This household was falling apart!

* * *

The bar pulsed with neon lights.

Couples swayed intimately on the dance floor while Grant sat alone in a corner. Whiskey after whiskey burned down his throat, doing nothing to extinguish the fire in his chest.

The shifting lights accentuated his razor-sharp jawline. Several women eyed him hungrily until one in a spaghetti strap dress gathered her courage.

"Such a shame to drink alone..."

She leaned forward deliberately, showcasing her cleavage.

Grant lifted his eyelids. "Get lost."

The woman recoiled at his glare and fled.

The bottle emptied quickly.

As he signaled for another, a familiar silhouette flashed through the crowd.

Grant lunged forward, grabbing the woman's wrist. "Ev—"

She turned—a heavily made-up face breaking into a flirtatious smile. "Buy me a drink, handsome?"

Not her.

Clara would never smile like that.

He released her, voice hoarse. "Wrong person."

He turned to leave when she yanked his sleeve. "Playing hard to get—"

"Let go." His gaze turned glacial.

She immediately released him, muttering, "Freak..."

Grant snatched his jacket and headed for the exit when someone blocked his path.

"Grant!" Julian Cross slung an arm around his shoulders. "Didn't know you were here! The guys are in the VIP lounge—come on!"