Chapter 11
Emma
Three days after the ultrasound, I'm still floating.
It's a strange feeling—this lightness in my chest that coexists with the constant nausea and bone-deep exhaustion. I wake up in Grant's bed with his arm draped over my waist, his hand resting protectively on my stomach, and I think to myself again that maybe this is going to be okay.
Later on, I'm at my apartment, attempting to work on my signature scent, when Grant calls.
"How's your day going, baby?" he asks, and I can hear street noise in the background. He's walking somewhere, probably between meetings.
"Quiet. I'm trying to finalize the base notes, but I keep getting distracted."
"Good distracted or bad distracted?"
I smile, even though he can't see it. "Good. I keep thinking about last night. You totally blew my mind. Yet again…"
His voice softens. "Yeah, that was totally amazing. I’ll definitely add that into the rotation."
I giggle and think about how hard he made me come last night—I didn’t even think that was possible.
"So," he continues. "I can’t wait until tonight to see you and I’m hoping you’ll have lunch with me. Can you swing it?”
I laugh again. "I totally shouldn’t. I really need to figure this formula out. But, then again, a girl’s gotta eat."
"Yes, she does—especially when she’s eating for three,” he jokes. “Does one o'clock work? There's a place in SoHo you'll like—farm-to-table, very Brooklyn-chic."
"Perfect. Text me the address."
The restaurant is exactly as advertised—exposed brick, Edison bulbs, a menu featuring things like "locally sourced heirloom tomatoes" and "artisanal sourdough.
" The kind of place where a salad costs twenty-eight dollars and everyone looks like they're dressed casually but they’ve carefully curated every piece of clothing.
I’m wearing black cigarette pants and a soft gray sweater, my hair down in loose waves. Put-together but not trying too hard.
Grant appears beside me, his hand finding the small of my back. "Hey. You made it."
"Barely. The subway decided to stall between stations for ten minutes."
He frowns. "You should have let me send the car."
"Grant—"
"I know, I know. You're perfectly capable of taking the subway." His thumb traces a circle on my back through my sweater as he gives me a kiss. I take a deep whiff of his cologne and feel myself relax.
Inside, the restaurant is bright and airy, all natural light and greenery.
We sit down and the server appears, asking about drinks. Grant orders sparkling water and starts to ask about the lunch specials when a woman interrupts.
“Dad…? What are you doing here?”
I look up to find Samantha Cross standing next to our table. I glance at Grant and the look of shock on his face is almost comical.
He stands up quickly. “Samantha… baby… how are you? Why aren’t you in school?”
She rolls her eyes at him. “I finish early on Wednesdays. I already told you about it. It’s a new thing they’re doing.”
He nods. “Right, right, I remember now.”
Samantha glances down at me and Grant bites on his lip for a moment. “You remember Emma, right? It’s been a while since the two of you have seen each other.”
Samantha Cross is beautiful. She has Grant's coloring but with delicate features that come from Victoria—high cheekbones, full lips, dark eyes framed by thick lashes. Her hair is styled in effortless waves, and she's wearing designer jeans and a cashmere sweater.
She glances at me now and narrows her eyes. “Yes, I remember Emma. Why are the two of you here together?”
Grant hesitates a moment. “That’s a great question. Have a seat for a minute and I’ll explain.”
Oh my god, he’s going to do this. Right now.
Samantha sits down. "You're sleeping together. That’s pretty obvious. Is that what you wanted to tell me?"
I feel my face heat. Grant's jaw tightens.
"Yes," he says carefully. "Emma and I are in a relationship."
"A relationship." Her eyes move between Grant and me. "How long has this been going on?"
"For about six or seven weeks now. We ran into each other in Florence and got to talking. And, well, here we are…” He looks at me and I can see the panic in his eyes.
"Florence. Right." Something flashes in her eyes. "How old are you, Emma?"
My mouth goes dry. "Twenty-four."
"Twenty-four." She repeats it slowly, like she's tasting the words. "And you're what, Dad? Forty-two?"
"Samantha—"
"So she's closer to my age than yours." Her smile is sharp, cutting. "That's not weird at all."
Grant's hand finds mine under the table, squeezing gently. "Samantha, I understand this is a lot to process. But I'd appreciate it if you'd be civil."
"Civil." She laughs. "I'm being perfectly civil, Dad. I'm just trying to understand the situation. You're dating someone who's barely older than me. The daughter of your best friend. Forgive me for having questions."
The server returns with our waters and asks if we're ready to order.
"Can you give us a few more minutes?" Grant asks tersely, and the server quickly retreats.
Silence descends on our table. Around us, the restaurant hums with normal conversations, normal lunches, people who aren't sitting in the middle of an emotional minefield.
"There's more," Grant says finally. "Emma and I—we're going to have a baby. Babies, actually. We’re having twins."
I watch Samantha's face cycle through emotions. Shock. Disbelief. Disgust.
"You're pregnant." She's staring at me now like I'm something toxic. "You've been dating for less than two months and you're already pregnant."
"It wasn't—" I stop. How do I explain this? That it was an accident? That we were careful but not careful enough? "We didn't plan it."
"Clearly." Her laugh is bitter. "God, Dad. What the actual fuck?"
"Samantha—" Grant's voice has an edge now.
"What, you want me to be happy about this? Congratulate you?" She pushes back from the table slightly. "You've been divorced from Mom for what, a year? And you're already having a baby with someone barely out of college?"
"I graduated two years ago," I say, though I'm not sure why I'm defending myself.
"Oh, well, that makes it all okay." Samantha's eyes are bright with anger—or maybe tears, I can't tell.
Grant's grip on my hand tightens. "That's enough."
"Is it? Because from where I'm sitting, this looks like a mid-life crisis with consequences." She turns to me, and there's deadly venom in her expression now. "Let me guess—you're enjoying the perks, right? The nice dinners, the fancy hotels. Does he buy you things? Pay your rent?”
The words hit like a punch to the gut. Every fear I've had, every anxiety about being dependent on Grant, weaponized and thrown in my face.
"Samantha." Grant's voice is sharp enough to cut. "Apologize. Now."
"For what exactly? You expect me to just smile and accept this load of crap?"
"She's not—Emma is not—" Grant stops, visibly trying to control his temper. "You're being incredibly rude."
"And you're being incredibly stupid." Samantha stands, grabbing her designer purse. "I can't do this. I can't sit here and pretend this isn't completely insane."
"Sit down," Grant says. "We're not finished—"
"Yeah, we are." She looks at me one last time, and the contempt in her eyes makes me want to crawl under the table. "Good luck with all this, Emma. I hope the money's worth it."
Then she's gone, weaving through tables toward the exit.
I sit frozen, my face burning, every word she said echoing in my head. Closer to my age than yours. Does he pay your rent? I hope the money's worth it.
Grant's still holding my hand, but I can barely feel it through the numbness spreading through my body.
"Emma." His voice is gentle. Pained. "I'm so sorry. I should have handled that differently. But I didn’t want to hide."
"It's fine." My voice sounds distant, like it's coming from the bottom of a well. "She's just protecting you. It makes sense."
"It's not fine. What she said was completely out of line." He reaches for my other hand, trying to get me to look at him. "Emma, please. Look at me."
I do, and the regret in his eyes is almost too much.
"None of what she said is true," he says firmly. "You know that, right? You're not some gold digger. You didn't trap me. This isn't about money or perks or—"
"I know." I do know. Logically. But logic doesn't stop the shame. Doesn't erase the image of Samantha's disgusted face.
"We should go." Grant's already signaling for the check. "Let’s stop somewhere else for a quick bite and then I'll take you home. Or back to my place. Wherever you want."
"My apartment." The words come out automatic. "I need—I should work. I have samples to finish."
He looks like he wants to argue but nods instead. "Okay. Let me just—"
He handles the bill and then we're outside in the bright afternoon sun. His car is already pulling up, his driver somehow always exactly where Grant needs him to be.
“I don’t have time to go somewhere else to eat,” I say. “I have some soup at home I can warm up.”
Grant just nods.
The ride to my apartment is silent. Grant holds my hand but I can't seem to find words. Can't sort through the mess of emotions I’m feeling.
Humiliation. That's the dominant one. The way Samantha looked at me, like I was something dirty. Something shameful.
But beneath that—fear. Because she's not wrong about everything. I am significantly younger than Grant. We have been together for less than two months. And yes, I've spent the last week sleeping in his penthouse, surrounded by wealth I could never afford on my own.
What if she's right? What if I'm kidding myself about being independent, about maintaining my sense of self? What if everyone who looks at us sees exactly what Samantha sees—a young woman latching onto an older, richer man?
The car stops outside my building, and Grant finally breaks the silence.
"I'm coming up with you."
"Grant—"
"I'm not leaving you like this, Emma. Please."
I'm too tired to argue. I let him follow me up the narrow stairs to my apartment—the apartment that suddenly feels impossibly small and shabby after spending time in his penthouse.
Inside, Grant closes the door and pulls me into his arms. I let him, resting my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I'm so sorry," he says into my hair. "I can’t believe how rude she was to you."
"She hates me."
"She doesn't hate you. She barely knows you."
"She knows enough." I pull back, looking up at him. "Grant, she's not entirely wrong. About the age gap, about how crazy this all is—" My voice cracks. "I'm terrified that everyone's going to look at us the way she did."
His hands frame my face, gentle but firm. "Everyone else doesn't matter. What matters is how we feel about each other."
"But your daughter does matter. Your family matters." Tears prick my eyes. "Grant, I'm not just dating you. I'm stepping into your whole life—your ex-wife, your daughter, your world. And I don't fit. Samantha made that pretty clear."
"You do fit. You fit with me."
"Do I?" The question comes out small. Vulnerable. "Because right now, I feel like I'm playing dress-up in a life that isn't mine."
"You're not—"
"She thinks I'm using you for your money.” The words taste bitter. “And Grant, the worst part? I can see how it looks from the outside. Young woman, older rich man, immediately pregnant. It's a cliché. And a bad one at that."
"It's our life," he says firmly. "And it's not a cliché. It's complicated and messy and happened faster than either of us expected, but what we have is real."
I want to believe him. But all I can see is Samantha's face. The contempt. The disgust.
"I think you should go," I say quietly.
Grant's hands drop from my face. "Emma—"
"I just need some space. To think. To process." I wrap my arms around myself. "Today was a lot."
He looks like he wants to argue. Like he wants to stay and keep trying to convince me that everything's fine.
But it's not fine. His daughter hates me. His ex-wife will hate me now, too. My father is going to explode when he finds out. And I'm standing in my tiny apartment, pregnant with twins, trying to just hold my life together while navigating a relationship that's moving at warp speed.
Nothing about this is fine.
"Okay," Grant says finally. "But Emma—this doesn't change anything. What Samantha said, how she reacted—it doesn't change how I feel about you. It doesn't change the fact that we're in this together."
Together. The word that felt so comforting earlier now feels weighted with complications I didn't fully understand.
Because together doesn't just mean Grant and me. It means Samantha. Victoria. My parents. All the people in our lives who are going to have opinions about us, judgments about our relationship.
It means stepping into a family I might be tearing apart.
"I know," I whisper.
He kisses my forehead and then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him, and I'm alone in my apartment with the afternoon sun streaming through the windows.
I sink onto my couch and press my hands against my stomach.
Two babies. Growing inside me right now. Half Grant, half me.
Samantha's future siblings.
The thought makes me feel sick. How is she ever going to accept these babies? How is she going to handle having siblings closer in age to her than their father is to their mother?
My phone buzzes. A text from Grant.
Grant: I love you. I know I haven't said it yet, and this is a terrible way to say it for the first time, but I do. I love you. And we're going to get through this.
I stare at the words.
I love you.
He loves me.
I should feel relief. Joy. Something warm and hopeful.
Instead, all I feel is the weight of everything those words mean. The complications they bring. The family dynamics they'll disrupt.
The life I might be stepping into that I'm not sure I'm equipped to handle.
I set the phone down without responding.
Outside my window, the city moves on. People living their normal lives, unaware that mine just got infinitely more complicated.
Samantha's voice echoes in my head. Closer to my age than yours. I hope the money's worth it.
And for the first time since seeing those two heartbeats, I wonder if Grant and I are making a terrible mistake.