Chapter 8
Emma
Grant's jaw tenses. He rubs his hand across it, and I can hear the scratch of five o'clock shadow against his palm. Then he nods. Once. Twice. Like he's trying to convince himself this is manageable.
"Okay," he says again. "So, that changes some things."
Some things. The understatement would be funny if I wasn't so freaked out.
Then, I actually see it with my own eyes—the moment he slides from shocked into problem-solving mode. His shoulders straighten. His eyes sharpen. He leans forward slightly, and when he speaks again, his voice has that calm, smooth quality that probably serves him well in boardrooms.
"You'll need a high-risk OB," he says. "Twin pregnancies have more complications. Do you have one lined up? Because I know several excellent practices that specialize in—"
"Grant—"
"And you'll need to think about your living situation. Your apartment is—how big is your place? Because you'll need space for two cribs, and—"
"Grant, stop."
He does, but I can see his mind still racing. Already cataloging problems, finding solutions. Already taking over.
Shit, I knew this was going to happen.
"I don't need you to fix this," I say, and my voice comes out sharper than I intend. "Like I said earlier, I can handle it."
His eyes meet mine, and there's something gentle in them that makes my throat tight. "I know you can. But I want to be here for you."
"I'm not asking for your help."
"Emma—"
"I told you because you have a right to know. Because they're yours, and it would be wrong to keep that from you." The words tumble out fast, defensive. "But I'm not—I don't need you to swoop in and start solving problems with your checkbook."
"I'm sure you can handle all this on your own." His voice stays maddeningly calm. "But taking care of yourself while building a business is different from taking care of yourself while pregnant with twins and building a business. The math changes."
The math. Like this is an equation he can solve.
"I'm not a problem that needs solving," I say.
"That's not what I'm saying."
"It's exactly what you're saying." I feel every muscle in my body tense up. "You're already doing it. Already thinking about how to fix it all. And I know you mean well, but I can't—"
My voice cracks. I stop, pressing my lips together, willing myself not to cry in this cafe.
Grant's quiet for a moment. Then he signals the server and asks for the check. When he looks back at me, there's something different in his expression.
"Let's get out of here," he says quietly. "Walk with me?"
I should say no. Should go home, flop down on the couch and figure this out on my own the way I've figured out everything else.
But I'm so tired. And Grant's looking at me now like he actually sees me, not just the problem I represent.
"Okay," I hear myself say.
He pays—probably left a tip that's more than my grocery budget—and then we're outside, the spring evening cool around us. Grant gestures toward the park across the street, and I fall into step beside him.
For a few minutes, we just walk. The path is lined with trees just starting to leaf out, that fresh green that makes everything look hopeful. There are joggers, dog walkers, a group of college students sprawled on the grass. Normal people living normal lives.
I wonder if I'll ever feel normal again.
"I'm sorry," Grant says finally.
I glance at him, surprised. "For what?"
"For immediately going into fix-it mode back there.
More than once." He shoves his hands in his pockets, his shoulders less rigid now that we're moving.
"It's a bad habit. When I'm confronted with a problem, my instinct is to solve it.
Make it manageable. But you're right—you're not a problem.
And this isn't a business deal I can structure. "
The apology catches me off guard. I was braced for him to argue, to insist he was just being practical.
"I know you mean well," I say, softer now.
"But you have to understand—my whole life, I've watched my father fix things for my mother.
Solve her problems. Make decisions for her.
And every time he did, she got a little smaller.
A little less herself." I stop walking, turning to face him. "I can't become that. I won't."
Grant stops too. When he looks at me, there's no defensiveness in his expression. "Tell me about what your mother used to be like. What you remember..."
The request is so unexpected that for a moment I don't know what to say. No one ever asks about my mother. She's just there, in the background of my father's life. The perfect accessory.
"She used to paint," I hear myself say. "Before she married my dad. She was good—really good. She had this studio in their first apartment, and she'd spend hours there, creating these beautiful abstract pieces. She even had a gallery show once."
"What happened?"
"My father happened." I can’t hide the bitterness in my voice.
"He didn't forbid her to paint. He's too smart for that.
He just made it... impractical. They needed the studio space for his home office.
Supplies were expensive. Wasn't his income enough? She didn’t need to inconvenience herself by trying to make her own money.
Slowly, piece by piece, painting became something she no longer did. "
Grant's jaw tightens. "And you're afraid I'll do the same thing to you."
"Not on purpose," I say. "I don't think my father meant to erase her either. But that's what money and power do—they make it so easy to solve everything, to smooth over every difficulty, until the person you're helping no longer has a say in anything.”
We start walking again, slower this time. Grant's quiet, and I can practically feel him thinking.
"My daughter hates me," he says finally.
The comment throws me. "What?"
"Samantha. My eighteen-year-old daughter." His voice is careful, measured. "She's furious about the divorce. Thinks I destroyed our family because I was bored with her mother. She barely speaks to me unless she needs money, and even then, it's usually through Victoria."
I don't know what to say to that. Don't know why he's telling me this.
"When she was little, I thought I was being a good father," he continues.
"I provided everything she could possibly need.
The best schools, the best opportunities.
I made sure she never had to worry about money or security or any of the things I worried about growing up.
" He pauses. "It never occurred to me that what she actually needed was my time. My attention. Not my bank account."
Understanding flickers through me. "You're saying you made the same mistakes with her that my father made with my mother."
"I'm saying I solved problems instead of being present.
" He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression.
"I'm saying I understand why you're afraid of me trying to fix everything.
Because I will try. It's my default. But Emma, I don't want to make the same mistakes with you that I made with Samantha. Or with Victoria."
The honesty in his voice makes me want to believe him. And harder to keep my walls up.
"I don't know how to accept help without losing myself," I admit quietly. "To allow someone to support me without it turning into something else."
"Then we'll figure it out together." He says it simply, like it's that easy. "You tell me when I'm overstepping. I'll work on being curious instead of taking control. We'll—" He stops, then chuckles. "We'll probably mess it up repeatedly. But we'll try."
A jogger passes us, and we step aside on the path. My mind is racing, trying to find the flaw in what he's saying. The trap. Because there has to be a trap, doesn't there? Men like Grant don't just listen. They fix. They control. They take over.
But the man walking beside me doesn't look like he's trying to control anything. He looks tired and probably as scared as I am.
"I need Essence to work," I say, the words coming out with a desperate edge. "It's not just about money or success or proving something to my father. It's the only thing in my life that's completely mine. The only thing I've built that no one else can take credit for. If I lose that—"
"You won't lose it."
"You can't know that."
"No," Grant agrees. "But I can promise I won't be the reason you lose it. If you'll let me help, it'll be on your terms. I'll just—" He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I'll be on your board for consultations. Not trying to take the whole thing over."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it scares me.
"What if you can't help yourself?" The question comes out small. "What if you see me struggling and your instinct is to fix it, and you can't stop yourself?"
"Then you call me on it." He stops walking again, turning to face me fully. "You tell me I'm doing it again, and I'll back off. I'm going to screw this up, Emma. Probably more than once. But I'm asking you to trust that I'll try. That when you tell me I'm overstepping, I'll listen."
The park stretches around us, green and calm and completely at odds with the chaos in my chest. I look at Grant's face—at the honesty in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he's standing there asking me to trust him despite knowing all my reasons not to.
"I'm really scared," I whisper. “The pregnancy, the twins, the way my entire life is about to change. I'm terrified."
"That's fair." His voice is gentle.
"And you're not scared?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "I'm forty-two years old, Emma.
I already have one daughter who can't stand me and an ex-wife who's probably planning my murder as we speak.
Now I'm having twins with a twenty-four-year-old woman who's determined not to need me, and when your father finds out, he'll definitely join in on Victoria’s plan to murder me.
" He meets my eyes. "I'm absolutely terrified. "