The judge leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Grant.

“Did you give your eight-year-old son a shirt containing your offshore account details?”

Grant didn’t answer.

He looked down at his polished leather shoes.

“Did you tell your son to keep that shirt hidden from his mother?” Judge Harlan asked.

“It was a security measure,” Grant muttered.

“For his future.”

“A security measure?” Judge Harlan asked.

“By using a child to smuggle financial information out of the country?”

“I was protecting my assets,” Grant said.

“From whom?” Sarah asked.

“From her!” Grant yelled, pointing a finger at me.

His polished veneer was completely gone now.

His face was flushed red, and his chest heaved.

“She wanted to ruin me,” Grant shouted.

“She wanted to take everything I worked for.”

“I built that company from nothing while she sat at home.”

“Mr. Bellamy, calm down,” Carroway warned, putting a hand on Grant’s shoulder.

Grant pushed his attorney’s hand away.

“No, Preston!” Grant yelled.

“I’m tired of lying about it.”

“She forced my hand.”

“If she hadn’t been so greedy, I wouldn’t have had to hide the money.”