Chapter 14 The Expectations
THE EXPECTATIONS
EMERY
“Emery, will you please stop for a second? We need to talk about Toni. We can’t keep putting it off.”
I wave Quin off, rushing past him into the dining room.
Cutlery clinks against ridiculously expensive porcelain china as I frantically inspect each fork, knife, and spoon, my heart pounding with nervous energy.
There's no time for distractions, not when my parents are about to walk through that door.
As I hold up a gleaming fork to the light, a burning scent catches my attention. Smoke. Why do I smell smoke? Panic surges through me. Did I leave the stove on?
I try to dart past Quin, but he intercepts me, his strong hands enveloping mine. "Breathe, darling," he says softly. "Everything is perfect."
I swallow hard, my gaze darting briefly to the front door. "I don’t want to do this. I…" I grumble, guilt gnawing at me. "God, I feel so bad, Quin. Damon should be here. He should…"
The look on his face when he left the townhouse is tattooed on my brain.
He tried to hide it, the disappointment, but he’s as easy to read as a picture book these days.
I love him. He knows I love him. But I fear it’s not enough.
I fear that he’ll slowly become resentful and unwilling.
It’s hard for him. Sharing. I wish I could make it easier.
I wish I could split myself in two. But I can’t.
I also can’t lie and tell him that my heart beats only for him.
I struggle with it every day. Quin sees the unease.
He comforts me. My heart feels safe with Quinton.
But it beats with Damon. I want both. I need both.
Forever.
The doorbell rings, and my spine straightens. "Oh my God, they’re here."
Quin smiles reassuringly at me, his confidence unwavering. "I’ll get it." With a determined step forward, he cranes his head over his shoulder. "But tonight, Emery. We discuss Toni. Alright?"
"Fine, whatever. Just get the door." My response comes out sharper than intended, and I inwardly wince at my terrible attitude.
Quin thinks that I'm avoiding the subject. Thinks I'm refusing to acknowledge the danger Toni poses. But the truth is, she’s not my top priority right now, and I don’t find her threats all too credible.
It's been months now. Months and nothing.
Sure, Quin's reckless trip to Texas may have reignited the flame, but I don’t feel afraid. Not of Toni, at least.
But my parents? My mother? That's a different story entirely. A tiny sheen of sweat forms on my forehead as Quin disappears into the foyer. In moments like this, I wish I could drown my anxiety in a glass of wine. It would make everything so much easier to bear.
As my parents enter the townhouse, the air around me thickens and I find it difficult to breath. My mother narrows her eyes, judging the decor as she weaves toward me. I force a smile, my heart pounding with apprehension.
"Hi, Mom, welcome to our…home."
She hums, lips pursed. "Thank you, it's very...nice in here." Her gaze drifts to Quinton, and she raises an eyebrow. "It appears my daughter has cultivated an expensive taste."
I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
"I truly hope that's not a real Monet," she adds, her disapproval evident.
Ignoring her comment, I give my dad a hug, whispering, "Be nice to him, okay?"
"It's not me you should worry about," he replies with a knowing smile.
After Josie takes my parents' coats, giving me a disdainful look that I can't blame her for, Quin claps his hands to get everyone's attention. "Shall we eat?"
"Yes, let's," my mother says, scrutinizing Quinton's every move—how he pulls out my chair, how he drapes a cloth napkin over his lap, and how he thanks Saran, our chef, as he brings out the food.
My hand trembles as I pick up a glass of water and take a sip. It's too quiet. We should've put on some background music. Within a second of having the thought, Quin excuses himself from the table and turns on the stereo, soft jazz filling the room.
When he returns, he says, "A little ambiance never hurts."
My mother picks up her fork and pushes the food on her plate around, inspecting the chicken. "This looks rather oily," she notes, casting a critical glance in my direction. "I thought your doctor told you to avoid eating fats."
"I—"
Quin interjects, coming to my rescue as he always does. "It's made with olive oil, Mrs. Jones, a heart-healthy fat. Studies have shown consuming olive oil reduces the risk of cardiovascular disease by 5 percent and coronary heart disease by 7 percent."
My mother purses her lips. "Is that from a study you conducted, Dr. Marquis?"
"Quin is fine," he says, refusing to let my mother rattle him. "And no, my company primarily conducts studies on the effectiveness of new drugs, although we do have products related to cardiovascular health."
"I suppose a doctor isn't the worst person to date, given Emery's condition," Dad chimes in, attempting to steer the conversation in a more positive direction.
He glances at Quin. "From what I read in the paper, you seem to be doing well for yourself.
I've always said Emery needs a man with ambition.
Did you know she finished college with multiple degrees in only three years? "
Quin smiles fondly at me. "Yes, your daughter is quite the genius. She can be intimidating at times."
My father chuckles. "Did you hear that, Susan? Our little girl is intimidating."
"Oh, yes, I heard," Mom murmurs, her tone still frosty. Straightening her posture, she clears her throat and I damn well know the inquisition has only started. “So, how did you two meet?”
My palms clam up.
“We met at a conference,” Quin lies with a devilish gleam. “The moment she arrived, I couldn’t take my eyes off her.”
“I see,” Mom hums. She might as well get it all out now. “And what conference might this have been? I can’t imagine there’s a lot of overlap between your two professions.”
Shit. I should say something. I should answer at least one question. But for some reason, I can barely open my mouth. My tongue is broken, unwilling to tell them lies. It’s never been an issue before. Why now?
Quin chuckles, light and airy, and I thank the universe that he’s able to remain so fucking calm and collected. “It was a networking conference for New York City executives.” He smirks at me. “Very exclusive.”
I see what he’s doing. Half truths. Half lies. Club Hades is exclusive. He’s not wrong.
“And you’ve been seeing each other since then?” Mom asks.
“Essentially,” Quin confirms, avoiding timelines.
We eat in relative silence for a few minutes as my dad makes the smallest of talks with Quin about rugby, and then my mother decides to take the stage again.
“So, how’s work, Emery?” she asks. “I read that Damon Cavanaugh stepped down and that you’ve got yourself a new boss. How’s that going?”
“Good,” I say, nearly choking on a piece of chicken. “Mr. Hadid is a great addition to the team.”
“That’s nice,” she mutters. “Although, I can’t imagine why someone would want to give up their family business like that, especially after that tragedy. If my parents were killed, I’d latch on to their business and try to preserve what was left of their legacy.”
A burst of defensive energy soars past my lips. “He still owns a fair amount of shares, and just because he doesn’t wish to walk in his father’s footsteps doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about their legacy. If anything, him passing the baton demonstrates his willingness to see the company succeed.”
Mom scoffs. “Please, Emery. He punched your…boyfriend in the face last year at a charity event. He doesn’t strike me as someone who makes rational decisions.”
I ball my hand into a fist. “That was a misunderstanding.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “All I’m saying is that I’m glad you’re no longer reporting to someone the paper called unhinged. The last thing we need is a workplace incident.”
“Damon is not unhinged, Mother,” I grunt. “He’s passionate, intelligent, and doing the best he can!”
My mom blinks at me, shifting her gaze to Quin who remains neutral. “Does she speak to you in such a tone as well?”
“Damon is a friend,” Quin says, reaching for my hand under the table.
He squeezes my fingers, his thumb grazing the skin.
“He’s been through a lot these past three years, Mrs. Jones.
Perhaps he deserves some grace.” He pauses.
“Plus, only plebeians believe everything they read in the paper, right?” My eyes widen.
Did he just called call my mother a fucking plebeian?
! He stands up. “Shall I grab some more wine?” He glances down at me. “Cider for you?”
I nod slowly. He’s ballsy. More ballsy than I gave him credit for. When Quin disappears into the kitchen, my mother whips her head at me, frowning.
“I hope you know what you’re doing, Emery,” she says. “People like Quinton are used to certain things. Their families have expectations. Most of them demand an heir.” She lowers her voice, and I swallow, my chest tight. “Have you talked about it with him? The risk associated with—”
“Stop it,” I cut her off, shaking my head. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Just because you don't want to hear something Emery doesn’t make it not true.” Mom elbows Dad. “Tell her. Remind her of the risks.”
Dad’s face pales. “Your mother is right, Emery. While I,” his voice cracks. “While I’d love to be a grandfather, I don’t want you to have to go through what we did.”
A lump forms in my throat as their words sink in, heavy and suffocating.
I never thought about it. I never paid much attention to Dr. Yang’s warnings.
Sure, I take birth control. I have since I was a teenager.
But… But kids? That never crossed my mind.
I know that it’s not always the case, but I thought a child should be created through love.
I never had love. Never felt it. Never wanted it. Never thought I could feel it.
Is that something Quin wants? Or Damon? Why haven’t we talked about it? Why hasn’t this topic been covered?
What do they want?
But more importantly…
What do I want?
Quin returns with the wine and cider, his expression carefully neutral as he sets the glasses down. He catches my eye, silently asking if I’m okay. I offer him a weak smile in return.
The rest of the dinner passes in strained conversation and forced politeness.
My mother continues to scrutinize every detail, probing us with her questions and insinuations.
Thankfully the evening comes to end without any blood, but before they retire to their room, my mother pulls out her phone and squints at the screen.
“Your father and I purchased tickets to an art gallery tomorrow morning. There’s a new VanGust exhibit.
” She peers up at Quin. “As I’m sure you’re aware.
” I snicker to myself. Quin knows nothing about art.
That’s Damon’s forte, through and through.
“Anyway, I assume the two of you will accompany us?”
“I’d love to, Mrs. Jones, however, I have a prior engagement,” Quin says, and I rein in a frown. He what? “But I hope you have a lovely time. I hear that exhibit is marvelous.” He motions to the stairs. “Let us show you to your room.”
As my parents lead the way to the guest room, I pull Quin to the side. “Prior engagement?”
“I’m going to see Damon in the morning,” he says, almost nervous. “I think the two of us need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Whatever the hell he’s going through.”