Chapter 13 #2
"When Victoria talks about our history, our twenty years together, she's not wrong that we built something," I continue. "But Emma, it was hollow. Beautiful on the outside, empty at the core. I was lonely in that marriage in a way I never was when I was actually alone."
My hand comes up to cup her face, brushing away tears with my thumb. "And then I sat next to you on a plane, and we talked and talked and I remembered what it felt like to actually care about something. To connect with someone."
"Grant—"
"Let me finish." I need her to hear this.
Need her to understand. "Victoria is my past. A long, complicated, painful past that I'm still trying to untangle.
And yes, she's going to be in my life forever because of Samantha.
But that doesn't mean she gets to poison our relationship. She doesn't get to make you doubt us."
"She's not wrong about the scrutiny," Emma says quietly. "People are going to talk. Judge. Make assumptions."
"Let them." I say it with more certainty than I feel. "Emma, I stopped caring what people think about me a long time ago. The only opinion that matters is yours."
She closes her eyes, fresh tears spilling over. "I'm so scared."
"I know."
"I'm scared that Victoria's right. That I'm just a temporary part of your life.
That when the newness wears off, you'll realize I'm not sophisticated enough, not elegant enough, not enough.
" Her voice breaks. "I'm scared that I'm going to lose myself trying to be what you need.
And I'm scared that if I don't try, I'm going to lose you. "
The raw honesty of it breaks something open in me. This is what Victoria did. What Samantha did. They took every fear Emma already had about our relationship and weaponized it.
"Look at me," I say gently.
She does, her eyes swimming with tears.
"You are already everything I need. Exactly as you are. I don't want you to change, to become more sophisticated or elegant or whatever bullshit standards Victoria thinks matter. I want you. A woman who's terrified of losing her independence but brave enough to try building a life together anyway."
"But what if—"
"What if I'm not enough for you?" I interrupt. "What if I'm too old, too set in my ways, too damaged from my marriage to give you what you deserve? What if my tendency to throw money at problems drives you away? What if my daughter never accepts you? What if your father disowns you because of me?"
She blinks, surprised.
"We can play the 'what if' game forever, Emma. Or we can choose to trust this. Trust us." I lean my forehead against hers. "I'm not asking you to stop being afraid. I'm just asking you to be afraid with me instead of alone."
For a long moment, we just breathe together. Then she whispers, "I don't know how to do this."
"Neither do I. But we'll figure it out." I pull back enough to see her face. "One decision at a time. One day at a time.”
We sit like that for a while, processing. Then Emma says, "We need to tell my parents. Before Victoria does."
Every instinct I have screams to agree. To get ahead of this, control the narrative, manage the fallout.
But I force myself to think past my first impulse. Think about what Emma needs instead of what I want to fix.
"Do we?" I ask carefully.
She pulls back, confused. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—yes, we’ll tell them eventually.
But Emma, you're barely ten weeks pregnant.
You've just had two incredibly traumatic encounters with my family.
Your business is at a critical juncture.
" I choose my words carefully. "What happens if we tell your parents now and they react badly?
If they demand you stay away from me? Or tell you they want you to move home?
Can you handle that kind of fight right now, on top of everything else? "
She pales. "I—I don't know."
"Obviously, we can’t hide it forever," I clarify. "But we could wait. Get through your first trimester. Let you catch your breath. Give us time to build a stronger foundation before we face that battle."
"That feels like lying."
"It's not lying. It's protecting yourself. Protecting us." I take her hands. "Emma, you're exhausted. Emotionally, physically. The stress isn't good for you or the babies. What if we just... took some time? For us. Without the entire world weighing in."
She worries her bottom lip, thinking. "What about Victoria? What if she tells him?"
"Victoria has never liked your dad and they really don’t have a relationship. I’m almost positive she’s not going to tell him. And even if she did, we could handle it then." I squeeze her hands.
The tension in her shoulders eases slightly.
"We can tell them when you're ready. When we're ready. On our terms, not because Victoria or Samantha forced our hand."
She nods slowly. "Okay. We wait."
Relief floods through me, followed immediately by guilt. Because part of me—a significant part—is relieved to put off the inevitable confrontation with my best friend.
"He's going to hate me," I say quietly. "When we do tell him. David's going to feel betrayed, and he'll have every right to."
"I know." Emma's voice is small. "He's going to think you took advantage of me. That you're having a mid-life crisis."
"Are we making a mistake?" The question slips out before I can stop it. "Keeping this from him?"
Emma looks at me for a long moment. Then she shifts, moving to straddle my lap, her hands framing my face. I feel my cock harden immediately.
Her thumbs stroke my jaw. "My father doesn't get to dictate my life. He doesn't get to tell me who I can love or when I'm allowed to start a family. I'm an adult. This is my choice."
The word "love" makes my heart stutter. "Is it? Your choice?"
"Am I choosing to hide the pregnancy from my controlling father until I'm emotionally ready to deal with his explosion? Yes." Her eyes hold mine. "Am I choosing to build a life with you, despite everyone's opinions? Yes to that too."
"Emma—"
"I'm still scared," she interrupts. "Of losing myself, of becoming too dependent on you, of everything Victoria said. But I'm also—" She stops, searching for words. "I'm starting to worry about it less and less, with each difficult conversation you and I have.”
All of a sudden, hope rushes in.
"I want to be your partner," I say. "Not your solution. Not the person who swoops in and fixes everything. Just—your partner. The person in your corner."
"Can you do that?" She asks it genuinely, without accusation. "Can you watch me struggle with something and not immediately try to solve it?"
It's a fair question. And the honest answer is: I don't know.
"I'm going to try. Really hard," I say. I pull her closer, needing the contact. "I’m going to fuck this up sometimes. But as long as we keep talking, keep being honest—"
"We'll figure it out," she finishes.
She leans down and kisses me. Not the desperate, passionate kisses we've shared before. This is softer. Slower.
When she pulls back, some of the fear in her eyes has receded.
"Stay tonight?" she asks.
"Are you sure? I could go home, give you space—"
"I don't want space." Her hands slide into my hair. "I want you here. With me. Is that okay?"
It's more than okay. It's everything.
"Yeah," I say. "I'd love to stay."
We move to her bedroom—barely bigger than a closet, with a double bed that's going to be a tight fit for both of us. But when we lie down together, Emma's back against my chest, my arm wrapped around her waist, my hand resting on her stomach where our children are growing, it feels perfect.
"Grant?" Her voice is quiet in the darkness.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For just... being here."
I press a kiss to her shoulder. "Thank you for letting me."
She's quiet for a moment, then: "I love you too, you know. I should have said it before. When you texted. But I was so overwhelmed by everything with Samantha and Victoria, and I just—."
My arm tightens around her. "You don't have to—"
"I love you," she says firmly. "It's terrifying and complicated and probably insane given how fast this is all happening. But I do. I love you."
The words settle in, so warm and real.
"I love you too," I say into her hair. "More than I knew was possible."
Emma leans toward me and kisses me and I instantly feel my cock harden. Her lips are soft against mine, her taste familiar yet still intoxicating. When she pulls back slightly, her eyes hold mine, and I'm overwhelmed by everything she means to me.
"I don't know what I'd do without you," I whisper, the words catching in my throat.
Her smile is tender as her hand moves down my chest, fingers trailing slowly and deliberately. She pauses at my stomach, and the anticipation makes my breath hitch. Then her hand slides lower, cupping me through my boxers, and I groan softly.
I moan as her fingers trace the outline of my erection.
"I want to make you come," she whispers, her eyes never leaving mine.
I watch her face as her hand slips inside my boxers and wraps around me, and I have to close my eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the sensation.
"Look at me," she says.
I open my eyes to find her watching me with such intensity. This isn't just physical—this feels like she’s reclaiming something. Choosing us despite everything Victoria and Samantha tried to destroy.
Her hand moves up and down my shaft slowly, deliberately, and I fight to keep my eyes open, to stay present with her in this moment. To let her see what she does to me.
Her lips find mine again, her tongue teasing at the seam of my mouth as her hand continues its torturous rhythm. I'm already straining against her touch, desperate for more. She breaks the kiss, her mouth moving to my jaw, then my neck, leaving a trail of heat wherever she touches.
"Oh my god, I need you," I groan as she nips at my collarbone.
She doesn't respond with words. Instead, she looks deeply into my eyes as she shifts lower, her lips pressing against my chest. And she continues to stroke me.