Crowdfunding And Porsche Chapter 2

At two-thirty in the morning, I returned to the estate to retrieve Lucas's medical history files.

The main hallway was dark. Greyson stood near his study doorway, his voice softer than I had ever heard it.

"Forget the waiting list at that Swiss rehabilitation clinic. Pay extra for the VIP expedited track. Jasmine scraped her ankle today. A girl should not have to live with scars. Book her for the full scar-restoration package while she is there."

He hung up, noticed me standing by the stairs, and frowned. "Why are you back?"

"To get his old medical records."

He extended a hand toward the folder in my grip. "How is he doing at the hospital?"

"Still in critical care."

He hesitated for a second. "I already made a donation."

I looked up, meeting his eyes. "Ten dollars?"

His face darkened. "The amount is irrelevant. What matters is the gesture."

So ten dollars was his idea of a meaningful gesture.

"And what about Jasmine?" I asked softly. "She scrapes her ankle, and you buy her a VIP spot at a private clinic in Switzerland?"

Greyson's eyes turned sharp and cold. "Jasmine is different. Her older sister saved my life. Her family sacrificed for me."

"So Lucas's life has to yield to hers?"

"Stop dragging your brother into every conversation!" he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Nadia died in that warehouse fire years ago! Can your family stop using sickness and guilt to bleed me dry?"

The words slammed into my chest like a blunt blade.

Perhaps realizing he had crossed a line, he retrieved a first-aid kit from the cabinet and gently applied a bandage to my cracked fingernail. "Pain is manageable, Norah. Do not turn your pain into an excuse to make demands."

Years ago, when Harrington Corporation faced a massive liquidity collapse, Greyson was hospitalized with severe gastric bleeding. I stayed by his bedside for three days and three nights without sleep.

Every hour, my phone vibrated with calls from aggressive creditors. I spent those nights holding a wet cloth to his forehead with one hand and begging investors for loans with the other.

I secured every penny through sheer desperation. I weathered those dark nights so he would not have to.

When he finally woke up, he gripped my hand and whispered, "Norah, I owe you my entire life."

Over time, he gave his gratitude to the Ross family, his gentle patience to Jasmine, and reserved only cold, condescending lectures for me.

I pulled my hand back, walked into the bedroom, and retrieved the divorce decree.

I had revised those documents many times before.

The first time was when he abandoned our anniversary dinner to attend Jasmine's birthday party. The second time was when he casually referred to Lucas as a long-term financial liability.

Tonight, the final thread snapped.

I signed my name at the bottom.

Norah Prescott.

My hand did not tremble as the ink dried on the paper.

The next morning, I did not go to the registrar office. I went straight to the law firm beneath the Harrington corporate tower.

Mr. Bennett, my attorney, reviewed the file line by line. "Are you certain you want to proceed with a litigated divorce?"

I nodded without hesitation. "Yes. We can attempt mediation, but do not let him stall."

At ten-forty, a text from Greyson popped up on my screen.

[Jasmine is getting her ankle evaluated today and she is feeling anxious. Stop acting out. We will talk at home tonight.]

I stared at the message for a moment before typing back.

[If you want to talk, contact my attorney.]

He called immediately. I declined the call, switched my phone to silent, and headed straight back to the ICU.