Billionaire Grandma Pretended to Be a Poor Widow to Test Her Grandson’s Bride. Five Minutes Told Her Everything
Eleanor Whitlow had spent sixty-seven years learning that money changed the way people looked at you.
By the time she was seventy-eight, she could walk into almost any restaurant in Savannah and have the best table before she removed her coat.
Bankers returned her calls within minutes.
Store managers remembered her favorite tea.
People who had never met her smiled when they heard the Whitlow name.
Her late husband had built warehouses.
Eleanor had turned those warehouses into a national logistics company.
By the time he died, the family owned half a dozen commercial blocks, two hotels, farmland, investments, and more money than Eleanor had ever learned to enjoy spending.
That was exactly why she stood in front of a mirror one Monday morning wearing the ugliest coat she owned.
The brown wool had belonged to a distant cousin.
The hem was uneven.
One button was missing.
Her shoes were old.
Her handbag was a grocery sack.
Even Earl, who had driven for the Whitlow family for twenty-three years, looked offended.
“Mrs. Whitlow.”
“What?”
“You look homeless.”
“That is the idea.”
“You own half this street.”
Eleanor adjusted the faded scarf around her head.
“That’s why I need the coat.”
Earl looked toward the bridal salon across from the car.
“Your grandson marries that girl Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“And instead of asking the Prescott family for references like a normal billionaire grandmother, you’re going inside dressed like that.”
Eleanor picked up an old wedding gown folded inside a paper bag.
“Paige Prescott has spent eleven months being charming to me.”
“Maybe she likes you.”
“Maybe.”
“She certainly likes Julian.”
“That is what I’m trying to discover.”
Earl sighed.
“How?”
Eleanor looked toward the bridal salon.
“I want to see how she treats somebody she thinks doesn’t matter.”
The wedding dress she carried had been hers.
She had worn it fifty-six years earlier.
The lace had yellowed.
One seam had opened.
The hem had torn.
Earl stared at it.
“You’re risking that?”
“It survived my wedding. It can survive a bridal shop.”
“Mrs. Whitlow…”
“Five minutes, Earl.”
She smiled.
“That’s all I need.”
She walked across the street.
A bell chimed when she entered Prescott Bridal House.
Everything inside was white.
White flowers.
White velvet chairs.
White walls.
White dresses under soft lighting.
At the center of the room stood Paige Prescott.
Blond hair.
Diamond earrings.
Perfect posture.
The bride Eleanor’s grandson Julian planned to marry in five days.
Paige was surrounded by bridesmaids.
One of them, Brynn, held a glass of champagne.
Another woman adjusted Paige’s train.
