It was Grant.

His voice was hoarse, stripping away the polished tone he usually used for the media.

“Grant,” I said, keeping my voice low so I would not wake the babies.

“They threw me out of my own office,” he hissed.

“It was never your office,” I said. “It belonged to my grandfather’s trust.”

“I built that portfolio for ten years,” he said, and I heard the sound of rain slashing against glass in the background.

“You abandoned your children in the ICU,” I said. “You signed the divorce papers while I was still bleeding.”

“Vanessa and I still have the foreign holdings,” he said, his voice shaking with rage. “You won’t get a dime of those.”

“Those holdings were audited this morning, Grant,” I said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“Margaret Voss does not miss anything,” I said.

I hung up the phone before he could reply.

I turned to the nurse, who was still waiting by the door.

“Send Arthur up,” I said. “But tell security to keep two guards right outside this door.”

The nurse nodded quickly and left the room.