Chapter 15
Grant
The Henderson contract sits on my desk, twenty-three pages of dense legal language that needs my review before the three o'clock meeting. I've read the same paragraph four times, and I still couldn't tell you what it says.
My mind is three miles downtown, in a sleek conference room where Emma is walking into the most important meeting of her life.
I check my watch. Ten forty-five. She should be there by now.
Lawrence Vance's office is in the Financial District, a converted loft space that his venture capital firm uses to make entrepreneurs feel simultaneously inspired and intimidated.
I've been there twice—once to pitch him on a mixed-use development, once to discuss a potential collaboration that never materialized.
He's smart. Shrewd. And he has an eye for companies with genuine potential, not just flashy presentations.
Emma's going to impress the hell out of him.
The thought makes my body warm with pride. I watched her refine her pitch until every word landed with precision. The passion in her voice when she talks about building a brand that actually means something—that's the kind of thing investors like Vance respond to.
My phone sits face-up on my desk, silent. I told Emma to text me when it's over, said I'd be thinking about her. What I didn't say is that I've been useless all morning, thinking about how she’s going to do.
Michael, my COO, noticed during our nine o'clock strategy meeting. Caught me staring at my phone instead of the quarterly projections and raised an eyebrow. I waved him off, forced myself to focus, but the numbers might as well have been hieroglyphics.
All I can think about is Emma.
The way she looked yesterday, lying in my bed with her presentation notes spread across her lap, her bottom lip caught between her teeth as she reviewed her talking points one more time.
The small swell of her stomach visible beneath my t-shirt—she's started stealing my clothes, says they're more comfortable now that her shirts are getting tight.
She had a fierce determination in her eyes when I asked if she was ready.
I have to be, she'd said. This is it.
And she meant it. Essence isn't just a business to Emma. It's evidence that she’s got what it takes to do this on her own. With no one’s help.
Especially mine.
The familiar frustration rises in my throat, and I force it down. We've had this conversation—multiple times. I understand why she needs to do this on her own. I totally respect it, even if every instinct I have screams to just write her a check and solve all her funding problems in one stroke.
But that's exactly what I can't do.
Because the money would come with conditions, whether I intended them or not. It would shift the power dynamic between us, make her dependent in ways that could poison our relationship. She'd always wonder if we were equals.
And I'd become exactly what she's been running from her entire life.
So instead, I sit in my office, pretending to review contracts while my girlfriend pitches an investor who could change her life, and I do absolutely nothing to help.
It's torture.
My phone buzzes, and I snatch it up so fast I nearly knock over my coffee.
It's just Michael, confirming our three o'clock. I set the phone down harder than necessary.
"Everything all right, Mr. Cross?"
I look up. Joan, my assistant, is standing in the doorway with a concerned expression. She's worked for me for six years and has seen me through the divorce and countless high-stakes negotiations.
"Fine," I say. "Just waiting on some important news."
Her expression shifts to something knowing. "Would this have anything to do with the young woman you’ve been spending quite a bit of time with lately?"
I should have known Joan would notice. She manages my calendar down to every minute detail. Very little escapes her attention.
"Possibly," I admit.
"Well, I hope the news is good." She sets a fresh cup of coffee on my desk—the third one this morning. "And Mr. Cross? Don’t forget you have the Bellmore Charity Luncheon at noon."
Shit. I'd completely forgotten.
The Bellmore Luncheon is one of those mandatory social obligations that comes with my net worth and public profile. A room full of Manhattan's elite, writing checks for causes they'll forget about by dessert, all while networking and social positioning under the guise of philanthropy.
I hate these things.
"Can I skip it?" I ask, already knowing the answer.
"You're receiving an award, Mr. Cross. It would be noted if you didn't attend." Joan's tone is gentle but firm. "The car will be ready at eleven-thirty."
I nod, resigned. At least it'll distract me from obsessively checking my phone.
After Joan leaves, I force myself to actually read the Henderson contract. Make notes in the margins, flag sections for revision, prepare for this afternoon's meeting like the professional I'm supposed to be.
But my mind keeps drifting.
To Emma, sitting across from Lawrence Vance, her laptop open in front of her, explaining her vision with a spark in her eyes.
To the way she felt in my arms last night, her body soft and warm against mine, her breathing evening out as exhaustion finally claimed her.
To the exhilarating reality that in twenty-four weeks, we're going to be parents.
The magnitude of it still hits me at random moments, stealing my breath. I'm going to have another chance at this. Another chance to be the father I wasn’t the first time around.
And this time Emma will be beside me, not Victoria with her calculated manipulation and constant undermining.
This time, I'm going to get it right.
There’s no other option.
The Bellmore Luncheon is held at the Plaza, in one of those ornate ballrooms that drips with old money and even older traditions. Crystal chandeliers, gilded mirrors, tables draped in ivory linens and set with more silverware than any one person could possibly need.
I arrive to find the room already half-full, Manhattan's elite clustered in small groups, champagne flutes in hand despite the fact that it's barely past noon. I recognize most of the faces—fellow developers, hedge fund managers, tech billionaires who've relocated to the city. The usual suspects.
"Grant! There you are."
I turn to find Thomas Bellmore himself approaching, hand extended. He's seventy-something, silver-haired, the founder of a pharmaceutical empire who now spends his time throwing lavish charity events and collecting awards for his generosity.
"Thomas." I shake his hand. "Beautiful event, as always."
"We're so honored to recognize your foundation's work today. The affordable housing initiative in Queens has been truly remarkable." His smile is practiced, perfect. "You must sit at my table. I have some people I'd like you to meet."
I let Thomas guide me to a table near the front, where several other guests are already seated. He makes introductions—a tech CEO whose name I immediately forget, a hedge fund manager I've met before at a dozen similar events, a museum curator who apparently wants to discuss a potential donation.
I smile, shake hands, play the part. But my mind is still downtown, still with Emma.
Is she still in the meeting? That’s got to be a good sign that it’s going well. Or is she finished but crushed and doesn’t want to text me?
My hand drifts to my pocket, checking for my phone. I forced myself to turn off the ringer, but it's on vibrate. If Emma texts, I'll feel it.
The luncheon begins. Salads appear, followed by some kind of fish in a cream sauce. Speeches are made, praising various attendees for their charitable contributions. I only half-listen, nodding at appropriate moments.
Then Thomas is at the podium, talking about affordable housing, about making the city accessible to working families, about corporate responsibility. He's saying my name, gesturing to me.
I stand, accepting polite applause, and make my way to the front. I go through the motions: accept the crystal plaque Thomas hands me, heavy and expensive and utterly meaningless; make a brief speech about the importance of community investment; and smile warmly and make a joke or two.
The words come easily—I've given versions of this speech a hundred times.
But they feel hollow today. Because what I really want to say is that I don't deserve awards for doing the bare minimum, for using a fraction of my wealth to help people who should never have been priced out of their own city in the first place.
But that's not how these things work. So I smile, thank Thomas and the Bellmore Foundation, and return to my seat to more applause.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur. Coffee, dessert, more speeches. I check my watch. One-fifteen. Emma's meeting must be over by now. Either she's celebrating or processing disappointment, and I'm stuck here, unable to be there for her.
I'm reaching for my phone, about to excuse myself to check for messages, when I see her.
Victoria.
She's across the ballroom, near the bar, her blonde hair styled in an elegant twist. She's wearing a navy dress that I recognize—vintage Chanel, the one she always said made her look powerful.
My entire body goes rigid.
What the hell is she doing here?
I watch as she laughs at something the man next to her says, one hand resting delicately on his arm. The gesture is casual, familiar, the kind of touch that suggests a relationship beyond mere acquaintances.
And that's when I see who she's talking to.
Lawrence Vance.
Lawrence Vance, the investor Emma pitched to this morning, is standing at the bar with my ex-wife, and they're talking like old friends.
Or maybe more than friends, based on the way Victoria is leaning in, the way he's smiling down at her.
This can't be a coincidence.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing. How does Victoria know Vance? Have they always been connected, and I just never noticed? Or is this new, something she cultivated specifically to—