Chapter 11 Grant
Grant
I stare at my untouched plate of sea bass, trying to focus on Father's voice as he outlines his ten-year expansion plan for Pierce & Sons.
The restaurant's outdoor patio offers a perfect view of Magnolia Cove's town square, where tourists and locals mingle in the early evening air.
It's the kind of casual, charming scene that would've made Father sneer a month ago.
Now, he's busy explaining how we can "elevate" it.
"The local palate may be... unrefined," he says, cutting into his steak with surgical precision. "But that simply means more opportunity for improvement. Wouldn't you agree, Grant?"
"Of course, Father." The words come out robotic, but I say them anyway. Across the table, Owen nods along, though his eyes remain fixed on his plate. I recognize that hunched posture, that careful way of making himself smaller. I've been perfecting the same technique since childhood.
Rachel's voice echoes in my mind: "He's not giving you time. He's giving you just enough rope to hang your dreams with."
I keep telling myself this is temporary, that I just need to play along for six months until Father eases his grip.
But I know she's right. It's never going to happen.
I can see it now—how each small compromise will lead to another, and another, until I'm exactly like Owen: a beaten-down lapdog whose dreams died under Father's relentless expectations.
My chest feels too tight, as if the air is slowly being squeezed out of me.
Father continues talking, but I don't hear a word he's saying.
My thoughts drift to my cart on the beach, the smell of sunscreen and salt.
The hand-painted sign I added last week.
Rachel's cottage, with its mismatched coffee mugs and wind chimes made from sea glass.
Everything real and imperfect and alive—everything I'm letting slip away.
God, Rachel. The memory of her face in the music room haunts me—the disappointment in her eyes, the sound of her voice breaking. She saw right through me, saw how easily I surrendered, how easily I chose the cage over the fight.
I love you enough to let you go. I just wish you loved yourself enough to stay.
Those words have been eating at me for days.
She was right—I don't know how to love myself enough to fight.
I've spent my entire life trying to be the perfect Pierce son, measuring every word, every action against Father's impossible standards.
The family name hangs around my neck like a gilded noose, and I've spent so long focusing on not choking that I've forgotten how to breathe.
What kind of man am I, that I'd give up everything real and precious for a person who's never loved me? Who's never looked at me and seen anything but another piece in his corporate chess game?
Owen hunches as he takes notes on whatever Father's saying. This is who I'm going to become—another Pierce who traded his soul for a corner office and Father's conditional approval.
"Did you hear what I said, Grant?"
"Mhmm." I answer, though I don't know what he's spent the last ten minutes talking about. I'm not sure it even matters. He doesn't actually want my input, just my compliance.
Music drifts across the square—soft at first, so faint I almost disregard it.
Then more instruments join in, and my head snaps up.
Rachel's students are arranged near the gazebo, but they're not alone.
Tom from the bait shop has his old trombone.
Violet's grandmother, Hazel, carries what appears to be a tambourine.
Even Marcus from the bookstore has dusted off his clarinet.
People keep arriving, and before long, instrument-wielding musicians flood the square.
They're all here. The entire town.
The music swells, and people emerge from every corner—shop owners, servers, tourists—all joining in with instruments or simply adding their voices. Zoe's orchestrating an impromptu dance routine, while Mia and Rhianna hand out flyers.
Then my breath catches.
Rachel stands at the center of it all, conducting this beautiful chaos with tears streaming down her face. Her hair's coming loose from its braid, catching the last rays of sunlight like strands of gold. She's radiant, fierce, absolutely free in a way I've never been.
My heart cracks open at the sight. This woman still fights for what she believes in when everything seems impossible.
She dragged a broken-down snow cone cart onto the beach and saw possibility.
She heard me playing piano in an empty school at midnight and didn't just listen—she understood.
She saw past every carefully constructed wall, every practiced smile, and found the real me underneath. The me I didn't know existed.
The scent of her hair fills my breath like a phantom memory. The weight of her curled against my body is bruised into my flesh. The taste and the feeling of how she kissed me, even knowing I came with the Pierce family's entire baggage collection, lingers in my mouth.
And what did I do? I let her go. Worse, I stood there and let my father reduce her to some small-town distraction. Let him dismiss everything beautiful and real about her, about us, about the life I could have.
Ethan and Tom set out baked goods on a table next to a donation jar covered in sparkly stickers that could only be Rhianna's handiwork.
I almost want to laugh. They need tens of thousands of dollars if the rumors I've heard around town are true.
The mountain they're trying to climb has tripled in height.
One bake sale and some street music won't create a miracle.
But look at them. All of them. The entire town showing up with instruments they probably haven't touched in years. Zoe spinning between tables collecting donations like it's a dance. Mia, Violet, and Rhianna handing out flyers they probably stayed up all night making.
I offered her money instead of courage. Tried to solve the problem like a Pierce—throw cash at it until the problem goes away.
But Rachel didn't want money. She wanted me to believe in something.
In her. In myself. In the magic that happens when people come together for something bigger than themselves.
God, I've been such a fool.
"This is completely unacceptable," Father snaps, his fork clattering against his plate. "The noise level alone—who authorized this disruption? Owen, call the council immediately—"
"Stop." The word slips out before I can catch it. Both Owen and Father freeze. "Just... stop."
"Excuse me?"
I love you enough to let you go.
Rachel's words ring through my head again, melodic and set to a four-beat rhythm. I stand, my chair scraping against the concrete. I love her enough to fight back. Finally, I understand what she tried to tell me. Maybe I finally love myself enough to get to my feet.
"I said stop." I clench the chair's back. I'm done.
Father's face darkens. "Grant Anthony Pierce, sit down this instant."
The music has risen to a crescendo. Most people in the square rise to their feet and start clapping. It's as if the entire world around us celebrates, but we're cocooned in a beat of intense silence.
"No." My hands are shaking, but my voice is steady. "I'm done with Pierce & Sons. Done with your expansion plans and your control and your... your way of making everyone around you smaller just so you can feel bigger."
"You're being ridiculous." He sets down his knife with dangerous precision. "If this is about that teacher—"
"This is about me." The words feel like breaking free, like finally breathing.
I'm done measuring my worth in profit margins and social connections.
Done pretending my hands were made for boardroom handshakes instead of piano keys and ice cream scoops.
Done watching other people live while I exist in a gilded prison.
"I'm changing the shop. Making it my own place, with my own recipes. No more Pierce & Sons."
"I'll cut you off." His voice drops to that quiet tone that used to terrify me. Somehow I hear it clearly above the cacophony happening around us. "You'll have nothing."
I laugh, and the sound startles all of us.
The reality of what I'm doing hits me like the gust of a hurricane.
I have maybe twenty thousand in Grant's Coastal Creamery's account—barely enough to keep the shop running for a couple of months once tourist season ends.
No safety net, no trust fund, no carefully curated list of business connections.
Just me and a tarnished cart and some recipes I created between board meetings and charity galas.
I should be terrified. By all rights, I should back down, apologize, and crawl back into Father's good graces.
But as I meet his gaze—really meet it, maybe for the first time in my life—I realize something: even if I fail, even if I crash and burn and lose the shop and end up having to take on other work just to make rent, I'll be free.
My hands shake, but my voice is steady when I say, "Do it, then. Disinherit me."
Father recoils as if I've slapped him. He drops his wineglass with a clatter that splashes burgundy liquid across the pristine tablecloth.
For the first time in my life, I see something flash across his face—almost like fear.
Not of me—never that—but of losing control.
Father, realizing his carefully constructed puppet show is falling apart because one son finally found his voice.
"You're making a terrible mistake," he growls, but the words somehow lack their usual steel. He looks smaller, sitting there with his perfectly pressed suit, in a place where no suit belongs—just a man who built his entire identity around controlling others, watching that control slip away.
I take a step back, and that's when the last chain breaks. No more threats. No more manipulation. No more carefully designed tests of loyalty. The power he's held over my entire life evaporates like sea spray in the summer sun. I'm just... free.
Father's face turns an alarming shade of purple. "You ungrateful—"
"Goodbye, Father." I turn away from his sputtering rage, from Owen's wide-eyed shock.
The entire square has transformed into a celebration of everything Father despises—messy, imperfect, and absolutely alive with joy.
This is what the prince felt, I think, riding toward the dragon.
This is what it means to choose yourself.
I want to stay, to watch Rachel shine in her element, to tell her she was right about everything. To join this beautiful rebellion she's inspired. But first, I have plans to set in motion. Dreams to resurrect. A future to build.
I only hope I haven't found my voice too late.
For the first time in my life, I'm writing my own story.
And I know exactly how I want it to end.