Thomas did not.
The judge looked directly at him.
“Mr. Grant, this court takes a very dim view of attempts to manipulate a spouse’s medical condition for financial advantage.”
Thomas swallowed.
“I didn’t manipulate anything.”
Diane lifted a single page.
“Then perhaps you can explain the petition your private physician drafted, stating that Mrs. Grant required conservatorship due to cognitive decline.”
My heart gave one hard beat.
I had known about the bank accounts.
I had known about the jewelry.
I had known Thomas wanted me hidden away somewhere with clean sheets and locked doors, the sort of place where an old woman could disappear politely.
But I had not seen that document.
Beside me, my daughter Rebecca made a small sound.
She sat in the row behind me, rigid with fury. My son Michael was beside her, his jaw clenched, his hand gripping the bench. Thomas had not expected them to come. He thought our children would be too embarrassed, too conflicted, too trained by years of his authority.
He had always mistaken obedience for loyalty.
Rebecca stood.
“Dad?”
The word cracked across the courtroom.
Thomas turned slowly.
His face shifted at once, becoming the wounded father, the misunderstood patriarch.
“Rebecca, this is not what it looks like.”
She stepped into the aisle.
“You tried to have Mom declared incompetent?”
“No,” he said. “I was protecting her.”
“From what?” Michael asked, standing too. “Her own money?”
The judge rapped his gavel once.
“This is not a family conference.”
But everyone had already heard enough.
Diane’s voice remained calm, almost gentle.
“Your Honor, given the risk of further asset dissipation, we request an immediate temporary restraining order freezing any accounts connected to Mr. Grant, Miss Sanders, and any entities created within the last twenty-four months. We also request the return of all items removed from Mrs. Grant’s residence and jewelry safe.”
Brooke’s hand tightened around the bracelet.
The judge looked at her wrist.
“Miss Sanders, remove it.”
Her lips parted.