Chapter 4 - The Confrontation on Screen
“Greer. Finally.” Landon’s voice came through the speaker, crisp and edged with practiced exhaustion. He was sitting in his home office—her home office, featuring the walnut desk she had custom-built before they were married. Through the glass doors behind him, the dim light of the nursery hallway was visible.
“Landon,” Greer said smoothly, her tone completely devoid of emotion. “Is there a reason you’re calling at nine-thirty on a Saturday night?”
Landon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose in a theatrical display of burden. “Where are you? Mother went by to check on you and June, and she said the house was locked tight. You didn't even leave a key. When you texted that you were going to your cousin’s, I didn't think you meant disappearing for the entire weekend without answering my calls.”
“I needed rest, Landon. The doctor recommended a quiet environment away from distractions,” Greer replied evenly, watching his eyes narrow slightly on the screen.
“Well, your idea of rest is causing a massive headache here,” Landon snapped, his polite veneer slipping for a split second before he caught himself. “Harper is standing right here. She came over to help me finalize the brand strategy deck for Monday morning’s board meeting, and we can’t access the design archive because your local permissions are tied up.”
Right on cue, Harper stepped into the frame behind Landon. She was wearing a cream silk blouse that looked suspiciously like one of Greer’s missing garments, and her hair was styled in loose waves. She flashed a warm, sympathetic smile at the camera—the exact expression of a saintly caretaker dealing with an unreasonable invalid.
“Greer, sweetheart,” Harper said, her voice dripping with artificial honey. “Please don’t be upset with Landon. We’re just trying to keep the business running smoothly while you recover. The board is meeting on Monday to discuss a temporary delegation of executive duties, and we want to make sure you’re fully represented in the materials.”
Greer stared at them both through the screen, feeling an immense wave of cold clarity. They were standing in her home, wearing her clothes, utilizing her designs, and calmly plotting her corporate execution while pretending to act out of Christian charity.
“That’s very thoughtful of you, Harper,” Greer said, her voice dropping an octave into a register that made Landon visibly flinch. “Considering you’ve spent the last six months diverting Maddox House franchise contracts into HP Strategic Holdings.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Landon’s hand froze mid-gesture as he reached for a pen on the desk. Harper’s practiced smile vanished instantly, her eyes widening in sudden, unadulterated panic as she exchanged a frantic look with Landon.
“What… what are you talking about, Greer?” Landon stammered, his professional composure completely fracturing under the weight of the accusation. “What shell company? Have you been taking your medication? You’re clearly delusional—this postpartum stress is making you imagine things that—”
“Save the script, Landon,” Greer interrupted, her tone sharp as a razor. “I pulled the server logs three hours ago. Every single wire transfer, every franchise re-assignment, and every forged signature on the HP Strategic Holdings filings are sitting in an encrypted file on my desktop right now.”
She paused, letting the heavy, suffocating weight of her words sink into the room across the digital divide.
“I’ll see you at the board meeting on Monday morning at nine sharp,” Greer continued, her gaze locked unblinkingly onto the camera lens. “I suggest you and your vice president of brand strategy bring good lawyers. Because by Monday afternoon, neither of you will have a job, a company, or a career left to salvage.”
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Before Landon could sputter another syllable of denial or rage, Greer tapped the red button and ended the call.
The kitchen fell completely silent. In the bassinet beside her, baby June stirred softly, let out a tiny sigh, and settled back into a deep, untroubled sleep. Greer looked down at her daughter, adjusted the edge of the cashmere blanket, and whispered into the quiet room, “We’re almost home, sweet girl.”
