Chapter 31 #2
And damn her, she's right. I did feel like an outsider—the scholarship girl, which really meant the charity case.
The only student whose parents weren't wealthy or well-connected, surrounded by girls raised to become politicians' wives or society darlings.
They were born into luxury, destined to "marry well" and produce the next generation of little elites. The whole cycle spinning on forever.
But all that only matters if you believe it does, I remind myself. I don't. Do I?
"Your lifestyles are too different," she goes on smoothly.
"Especially when it comes to raising a family.
Grayson knows it too. He's rebelling right now, but he'll settle down eventually—and when he does, where will that leave you?
I'm only being honest with you, as a kindness.
It's nothing personal, dear, I assure you. "
"I see." I'm not offended—yet. Still shocked, maybe a little hurt that she's doing this behind Grayson's back. "Well, since you think I'm greedy enough to take your offer, why wouldn't I be greedy enough to hold out for something larger?"
Her eyes narrow. "I can make sure you never see a cent of his inheritance. Our lawyers are drafting the contract as we speak."
Now I am offended. The fact that she automatically sees me as some gold-digging thief really stings.
I'm tempted to show her another side of me—just to give her more reason to hate me.
"Yes, but you realize Grayson's independently wealthy," I say evenly. "His inheritance is only part of it. His real wealth lies in the portfolio he's built himself, and if I were truly after money, there's nothing you could offer that would top that."
Her eyes sharpen. "Ha! So, you admit you're after his money."
"No." I smile. "If that were true, I wouldn't have told him I was willing to sign a prenup—and keep our finances separate."
(Of course, I haven't actually told him that, but it sounds reasonable enough.)
"The only thing I want from your son, ma'am, is his love and affection. I don't care about his money. But perhaps you already know that—deep down—no matter how hard you try to fight it."
"And is that why you allowed him to see other people while you were dating?"
"What?"
"I suppose you haven't seen the exposé on page three," she says. "It reveals that while you and Grayson were together, he was also seeing Anastasia Lieberman. I already knew, of course—Anastasia's mother and I play golf together. She told me they were still seeing each other barely a month ago."
Shit.
"Grayson explained that was a misunderstanding," I say quickly. "Apparently, it was a business meeting."
"Business? Between him and a pageant queen?" She lifts an eyebrow, folding her arms. "Pray tell, what business would that be?"
Double shit.
I scramble for an answer. "Maybe he was planning a pageant for the Symposium and wanted her advice?"
"Oh, come now, Ms. Marlowe. You're too smart to believe that."
I flush. "Alright, maybe we were having some issues at the time. But I don't see how him straying proves I'm not good enough for him."
"That's not what I'm saying at all." Her voice softens slightly as she pinches the bridge of her nose. "You're misunderstanding me, dear. This isn't about being good enough—it's about compatibility. You and Grayson don't share the same values. If he's already wandering, that tells you everything."
"Well, I wouldn't call what he did philandering..."
She shakes her head. "Grayson's a lot like my husband—men of strict moral codes.
They may play around when single, but once committed, they never stray.
My husband cheated on his first wife once—just a kiss—and that was enough to show him their marriage was beyond repair.
He left her after that. Michael has never cheated on me.
"If Grayson's already cheating before marriage, that's your sign, Jenna. Believe me, this isn't meant to hurt you. I know you think you love him, but it's kinder to part ways now than years from now when it'll break you completely."
She reaches for my hand, cool fingers at odds with the sympathy in her gaze. "It'll be easier for you both this way."
She slides the notepad toward me again.
"There's no reason you shouldn't get something out of it," she adds smoothly. "It's not your fault he's been playing games, so you deserve compensation. Name your price." She opens a leather checkbook with a practiced flick. "Write the amount, and I'll pay you now."
"Compensation?" I spit. "You mean bribery."
"Whatever you want to call it." She scribbles something on the pad and lays it on my desk. "There's a number and my cell. Call or text ‘yes,' and I'll have the funds in your account the same day."
As she turns to leave, I hear myself say, "Wait."
She stops, eyebrows raised.
"Yes?"
"What's your problem with me?" The words come out rawer than I expect. "What is it you find so damn objectionable? Why don't you think we're compatible?"
Because in my eyes, we are. Grayson and I share the same work ethic, humor, loyalty—even our temperaments line up. We're protective of the people we love. Let's be honest, the sexual chemistry is off the charts.
"I could make your son very happy," I tell her quietly. "If you'd just give me the chance."
She exhales, gaze softening almost imperceptibly. "The woman my husband first married was a lot like you. Ambitious. Independent. Always with something to prove. She made him miserable."
"So?" I ask. "I'm not her."
"I'm not saying you are," she says evenly. "But I know your type, and I'm not letting history repeat itself. Lilian was hypercritical. She made everyone around her miserable."
I want to sympathize, but the logic is absurd. "So because your husband's ex was a career woman who made him miserable, all career women are bad? You think I'll do the same to Grayson—is that it?"
She inclines her head, not quite denying it.
"And that doesn't sound the least bit ridiculous to you?" My voice rises before I can stop it. I'd expected her to say something—anything—real. Something that made sense of her hostility. Instead, all I get is shallow prejudice wrapped in polite condescension.
"Doesn't it seem insane that you'd throw away your son's happiness—force me out of his life—just to prove a point to yourself? Or is this not about Grayson at all? Is it really about proving your husband was right to choose you over his first wife?"
The thought hits me like a spark catching flame. "Let me guess—you're the woman he cheated with, aren't you? Is that why you can't stand me? Because I remind you that you were once the other woman?"
"How dare you!" she snaps, outrage flashing—and beneath it, guilt.
"Ha!" I let out a bitter laugh. "Unbelievable. Is that why you forgave Marina so easily? No one batted an eye when she broke Grayson's heart, and you all welcomed her back like nothing happened. Was it because her fall from grace made you feel better about your own?"
"Don't talk to me like that! You don't know what happened."
"You're right!" I explode. "I don't. But I do know what I see—a woman so ashamed and desperate to bury that shame she's willing to destroy her son's heart all over again. A family that pretends to protect him but never once considers what he wants. You all take from him but never give back."
I step closer, feeding on her shock. "You think I'm the one using him?
You and your husband have been using him his entire life.
He's had to hide every emotion just to survive you.
You're the reason he avoids color, the reason he forces himself to be practical, never indulgent—because you taught him emotion is weakness.
He's twisted himself into knots to be who you demanded.
He's the only one in your entire family who actually works.
He's the one keeping the Wolfe Group afloat, and you still complain about the man you made. "
I lean in, low and cold. "So think about that the next time you walk in here waving a checkbook. That cash only exists because Grayson's been saving your fortune for the last ten years."
My chest heaves. Time to end this before I lose complete control.
"There's the door," I say, voice like ice. "Use it, and if you ever show up here again uninvited, I'll have you removed for trespassing."
She gasps, speechless—angry, humiliated, and, for a fleeting second, close to tears. Then she turns and leaves without a word.
I stand there, panting like I've run a mile. God, I haven't yelled at anyone like that in years.
I feel dizzy, suddenly needing to sit down. Is that normal? I don't usually get dizzy, but then I don't normally go around shouting at people. Is this what pregnancy does to you? Or is just that Mrs. Wolfe is excellent at rubbing people up the wrong way.
I find a chair and drag myself into it. Of all the people to choose, it had to be his mother I decided to take out my emotions on.
As the anger drains away, shame seeps in to take its place.
Yeah, I've definitely lost that bet with Grayson about getting his mom to like me. But worse than that... at some stage I'm going to have to tell him he's a father. I'm really not sure how he's going to take it.
"She did what?" Grayson's voice ricochets off the living room walls.
I nod miserably. The second he walked through the door, I unloaded on him about his mother's visit, too guilty to hold it in alongside what else I am hiding from him. Somehow though, I just can't summon the courage to tell him that piece of news. Not yet.
Not until I've definitely decided whether I want to keep it or not. Telling him is impossible right now, but honestly, not telling him is hardly any better. I feel so guilty.
"I think I might have ruined everything," I admit.
"No, no, you didn't ruin anything." He rubs the back of his neck, disbelief flickering across his face. "It's insane that she'd go that far, though honestly, maybe I should've expected it."
"She offered me money," I say. "Five million dollars."
He blinks, then smirks. "Wow. Not bad. Maybe you should've taken it."
I shoot him a glare.
His grin fades. "Yeah. That was messed up. I'm sorry."
"You're sorry?" I stare at him. "I'm the one who should apologize."
"For what?"
"For yelling at your mom."
"She asked for it."
"She's going to hate me even more now."
"It's fine. You're the one who wanted her to like you. I told you, she doesn't need to. She just needs to believe the engagement's real—which she clearly does."
"But—"
"But nothing." His tone softens. "The show must go on."
"Alright," I murmur, swallowing hard and forcing myself back to the cold, practical truth. "You're right. It doesn't matter. Because that's all this is, right? A show."
I'm not sure if I'm saying it for him—or to convince myself.
But as he stares down at me, he doesn't answer.