Chapter 1
Ever thought you found the right guy? Perfect in every way. Gorgeous, rich, sweet, thoughtful, compassionate, and everything that would make your friends jealous? Yeah, well, it doesn’t exist. At least not for me, it didn’t. I’m Candice Dawson, or at least I was. I was doing well on my own. Then I met Grant Dawson, who swept me off my feet and then dropped me on my ass. It’s fine, though, because I had the last laugh. Wasn’t all bad though. I found the love of my life and ended up with three beautiful children. But enough. I’ll just tell you the story of what all went down and how I destroyed him like he destroyed me.
Let me take you back—this all started 4 years ago, right around my birthday: September 17, 2020. Back then, I was in my prime. Long, wavy blonde hair, a nice coke-bottle frame, and a fresh tan. My hazel eyes caught any man’s attention. I wasn’t too tall, nor was I too short. But I’m getting off topic. As I said, I was in my prime. As a birthday gift to myself, I got a loan from the bank and opened a bakery called Velvet. I named it that because everyone said my cakes were like velvet. Business was slow at first, so I ran promotions and sales to spread the word, and soon I picked up a significant amount of business. I had bought a small shop, and with the money I had left over, I really hooked the place up: a nice red velvet sectional for customers to wait on their orders, pictures of desserts on the wall, some pink floral wallpaper, a cute pink floral rug to match, all topped off with a mahogany wood coffee table set with a 3-tier silver plated dessert stand. Customers enjoyed the atmosphere.
Now, fast-forward to October 30 of that same year. I had a big catering job coming up. By that time, I had about 6 new employees and had to bake a thousand cupcakes for a huge Halloween office party being held at Dawson Inc., the largest law firm here. We had just finished getting all the cakes loaded up when a black Mercedes pulled up and a man walked in, oozing power with how confidently he walked. His black suit, paired with a black undershirt, is slightly open, revealing his perfectly pressed chest hair. His short brown hair is neatly slicked back. Skin is almost like caramel. Blue eyes and freshly shaved. Standing about 6′0" tall, he looks around, and his eyes land on me.
Man: I’m looking for Candice O’Neill.
Me: That’s me. How can I help you?
Man: My assistant was supposed to cancel the cupcake order last week.
Employees: Ugh.
Me: Seriously?!
Man: Yeah. Sorry, I changed my mind and--
Me: We just spent all day making them. And it was for nothing. Could you please refrain from calling my store again?
I help my employees unload the cupcakes from the van. I feel bad—they worked hard, and I was counting on this to pay them. Now I might have to let some go. As we place the cupcakes back on racks, he pulls me aside.
Man: I’m terribly sorry. I’ll pay.
Me: No thanks, just leave.
Man: I won’t take no for an answer. How much?
Me: I said no.
Man: We can go back and forth all day.
Me: 1 million.
Man: Be serious.
Me: Ok, since you insist on paying. For the orders I wasn't able to fulfill, the labor of my employees, the ingredients used, and the rudeness of a last-minute cancellation. $150,000.
Man: Seriously?
Me: You asked, and I told you what I want. Take it or leave it.
He rolls his eyes, pulls out his checkbook, and writes. He tears out the check and hands it to me. H e can’t possibly have that kind of money. I look down—the check is for $200,000. I rip it up and walk away; he grabs my arm.
Man: What was that for?
Me: It’s not real. I’m not depositing a fake check into my account.
Man: It’s not fake.
He writes another check, pulls out his card, folds the check over it, and shoves it in my hand. He snatches a cupcake, runs to his car, and speeds off. I look down—still $200,000. The business card reads “Dawson Inc., President and CEO: Grant Dawson,” with his phone number. I’m stunned. That’s billionaire Grant Dawson, a man who was once thought to be a myth. I actually met him. But something feels off. Why pay me that much?
I went down to the bank first thing the next day to deposit the check into my business account. Didn’t have any problem besides the cashier thinking I made up getting a check from Grant Dawson.
Teller: Uh-huh. So, Grant Dawson gave this to you?
Me: How many times do you want me to tell you? Look, he gave me his business card.
Teller: Yeah, anyone can just grab these, you know.
She pulls out a card from her purse—identical to mine. Nothing I say will convince her. I take my card and leave, luckily not having endorsed the check yet. I call the number on the card.
Girl: Thank you for calling Dawson INC. How can I help you today?
Me: Can I speak to Mr. Dawson?
Girl: May I ask who’s calling?
Me: Candice O’Neill.
Girl: One moment.
I’m placed on hold. A deep, smooth voice greets me—soothing, almost hypnotic. I’m lost for a moment before I hear multiple hellos.
Grant: Hellllllooooo.
Me: Oh uh. Hi. This is Candice O’Neill. The owner of the bakery.
Grant: How can I help you, Mrs. O’Neill?
Fuck the way he just said my name has got me a little wet. It’s so hard to focus, but I have to get this done.
Me: I’m having a problem depositing the check.
Grant: It’s not showing fraudulent on my end.
Me: The bank teller thinks I’m lying and won’t accept it. Can you maybe call down here and confirm it or something?
Grant: I’ll do one better. Let me have your number, and I’ll text you on my personal number so we can meet up.
Me: Wow. Thank you.
Grant: Anytime, Mrs. O’Neill.
I give him my number, and he calls to confirm it’s really me. I share the address, and he arrives in about 20 minutes. He walks into the bank with me.
Grant: Mrs. O’Neill needs to deposit this check.
Teller: I’m sorry. I’m trying to keep her in good standing with the bank. But I don’t think Mr. Dawson gave this to her.
Grant: But I did write it.
Teller: Uh-huh. And I’m Shakira.
He shows his ID. The teller nearly chokes on her gum, slides the check over for my signature, and can’t take her eyes off him. He leans over and whispers in my ear.
Grant: Your turn to make her mad.
Me: How?
Grant: You have a good ma’am.
He puts his arm around my waist as we leave the bank. I glance back—the teller glares, and I find it hilarious. Outside, he lets me go. I start toward my car, and he taps my shoulder.
Grant: Want to grab a coffee?
Me: Uh, sure.
One of the best and worst mistakes I could have ever made in my life.
