46. Margot
46
MARGOT
T he city glimmers beneath our penthouse like it doesn’t know the world is crumbling, or maybe it does, and just doesn’t care. Buildings stretch into the haze of late afternoon, their glass facades catching the light in fractured gold. Below, traffic hums, indifferent. Constant.
I’m seated in the corner of the living room, laptop closed, hands resting on my belly. She’s kicking again. Not wildly. Not angrily. Just enough to remind me she’s here. That something new and real is growing, even while the past claws at the present with bloodied nails.
Grayson is by the window. Not leaning, not pacing, just standing. He’s been like that for nearly ten minutes. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. The screen’s still lit. The message he got this morning still open. I’ve given him space. I’ve waited. But the silence is beginning to feel like a wall between us.
“Are you going to call?” I ask gently.
His jaw shifts. “I don’t know.”
I rise slowly, stretching against the weight of the day and the baby pressing into my spine. I cross the room barefoot, the rug soft beneath my feet, and stop behind him, resting a hand between his shoulder blades.
“You don’t have to do it alone.”
“I know.”
Silence again. Not hostile. Not closed. Just… weighted.
“I’m scared,” he finally says.
I blink. Grayson King doesn’t say that kind of thing often. And when he does, it never sounds like weakness. It sounds like truth. Stripped down and raw.
“I know you are,” I whisper. “But whatever this is, whoever he is, you deserve the truth. You deserve to choose how it shapes you.”
He doesn’t answer. So I step in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet mine.
“You are not a name. You are not a secret. You’re a man who built something incredible out of the unknown. But this?” I gesture to the phone. “This is your story, too.”
He exhales. Closes his eyes. And nods. The apartment is too quiet after he dials. He puts it on speaker at my request, and we both sit on the couch, cushions barely touching, like something sacred is about to rupture the air. The line rings once. Twice. Then a voice. Male. Calm. Older. With the kind of measured cadence that makes you think he’s spoken to crowds before.
“I was wondering when you’d reach out.”
Grayson swallows. “Who are you?”
There’s a pause. Then, “I was your mother’s mistake. And the reason she built an empire.”
The next half hour unfolds in fragments. The man doesn’t give a full name, not yet, but he confirms everything Eleanor danced around. A brief affair. An attempt to bury it. A child she raised with another man’s name because the truth didn’t fit the legacy she wanted.
“I watched you from a distance,” the man says. “Not out of shame. But because Eleanor made it clear, there was no room for me in your world.”
Grayson doesn’t respond. He just listens. Still. Tense.
“She’s always been good at closing doors,” I say finally, unable to hold back.
“She’s better at building new ones,” the man replies. “Locked from the inside.”
When the call ends, the silence is different. Not heavy. Just... quiet. Like a door has opened, and now we’re standing in front of something unknown.
***
The next morning, I wake before the sun. Grayson’s still asleep, arm thrown across my waist, face relaxed in a way I rarely see. I don’t move. Not yet. I just watch him breathe and let my fingers trace lazy circles against his forearm.
He’s doing the impossible. Facing a truth he didn’t ask for. And still, still, he holds me at night like I’m the only thing that steadies him.
I press a kiss to his temple and whisper, “We’re going to be okay.”
***
The OB-GYN office smells like lemon cleaner and lavender hand sanitizer. A weird mix, but not unpleasant. It’s busy this morning, mothers with toddlers clinging to their legs, a few swollen-bellied women flipping through parenting magazines with glazed-over eyes. A baby screams somewhere behind the closed exam room doors.
Grayson and I sit side by side on the cushioned bench along the window. The upholstery is salmon pink. Who chose salmon pink for a medical waiting room? I’m convinced it was a cruel joke. He taps his fingers on the armrest, glancing around, visibly unsure what to do with himself.
“You okay?” I murmur.
“I’ve survived board takeovers, press scandals, and your death glare,” he says. “But this waiting room? This is hell.”
I laugh, soft and startled. It feels good. Like a pressure valve letting go. A nurse calls my name. We rise together.
The room is small, bright, clinical. I undress behind a curtain while Grayson awkwardly studies the laminated anatomy posters on the wall. When I settle back onto the exam table, he takes my hand without being asked. He holds it tightly, like there’s something he needs to anchor to.
The ultrasound tech is young, cheerful, wearing lavender scrubs and a messy bun that defies gravity.
“Let’s take a look at baby,” she says, rolling the machine closer.
The screen flickers to life. The wand is cold on my skin. I suck in a breath. And then…There she is. Perfect. Curled. Moving. Grayson’s breath catches.
The tech narrates softly, head circumference, heartbeat, position. She adjusts the sound and fills the room with the pulsing rhythm of our daughter’s heart. Steady. Strong. Alive. Grayson leans forward slightly. His thumb strokes the back of my hand.
“She’s big,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“She’s perfect,” I say.
His eyes shine, but he blinks fast. Still not used to showing too much. But I see it. All of it.
“Would you like a photo?” the tech asks.
“Yes,” we say at the same time.
She smiles. As she finishes up, I glance at Grayson. He’s still staring at the screen. Still watching like it’s the only thing that matters. And maybe it is.
***
Later, as we walk through the lobby hand in hand, I feel lighter. Not because the world outside has stopped throwing punches. But because for the first time in days, the fear inside me isn’t louder than the hope. He squeezes my hand. “You were right.”
I lift a brow. “I usually am. About what?”
“About the truth. About needing it.”
I lean into him as we step out into the sunshine. “Good. Because we’re not done.”
He stops walking. Turns to face me.
“Not done?”
I smile. “No. We’re just getting started.”