Chapter 16 #2
Mom's eyes meet mine across the table, worried. "I just meant she looks healthy. And happy."
"Happy." Dad studies me with intense eyes. "You do look different. What is it?"
"Nothing. I'm just—the business is going well. I'm hopeful about the investor. That's all."
Shit. Shit. Shit.
He doesn't look convinced, but he lets it drop, transitioning instead to a complaint about the co-op board in his building. I exhale slowly, my heart still racing.
We make it through the main course. I accept a small serving of the apple crisp Mom made for dessert, even though my stomach is twisted in knots. Dad pours himself another whiskey. Mom offers coffee.
This is almost over. I can make it through this.
Then Dad says, "You know, I haven't seen Grant in weeks. Usually, we play golf at least twice a month, but he's been strangely unavailable."
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth, the fork suspended in midair.
"Grant's been busy," I hear myself say. "Big acquisition in the works."
Shit. Why did I say that? How would I know that?
Dad's eyes narrow. "How do you know about his acquisition?"
"I—" My mind races. "You mentioned it last time his name came up.”
"No," Dad says slowly. "I don't remember saying anything about that."
"I’m pretty sure you did." I take a sip of water, willing my hand to be steady. "Anyway, I'm sure he's just swamped."
"Hmm." Dad leans back in his chair, still studying me. "It's strange, though. Grant's never been too busy for golf before. Makes me wonder if something's going on with him. He seemed distracted last time we talked. Distracted and—I don't know. Different."
Oh God. This is it. This is where it all falls apart.
"Maybe he's still getting over the divorce," I say, desperate to redirect. "It was pretty brutal, wasn't it? Victoria really did a number on him."
"Victoria." Dad's expression hardens. "That woman. I never understood what he saw in her. Cold as ice, that one."
"David," Mom says gently. "That's not—"
"It's true, Helen. Twenty years he wasted with someone who only cared about his bank account." He drains his whiskey. "I told Grant from the beginning she was going to be a problem—"
He stops mid-sentence, his eyes focusing on me again.
"What?" I ask, my voice coming out higher than intended.
"Stand up for a moment."
"What? Why?"
"Just stand up, Emma. Let me look at you."
This is it. This is where he sees. Where he knows.
I force myself to stand, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure they can both hear it. Dad's eyes travel over me, assessing, and I resist the urge to cover my stomach with my hands.
"You’ve put on a few pounds, haven't you?" He says it casually, almost laughing.
Mom makes a nervous sound that might be a laugh. "Emma looks beautiful."
"I'm not saying she doesn't. Just observing." He reaches out, and before I can step back, his hand pats my stomach. Right where the small swell curves beneath my dress.
I freeze. Completely freeze. My heart stops beating.
His hand lingers there for just a second too long, and then he's laughing, pulling back. "You might need to lay off the ice cream."
"I should go." The words tumble out in a rush. "I have an early shift at the restaurant tomorrow, and I need to—I should really—"
"Emma, your father was just teasing." Mom stands, concerned. "Stay for coffee. We hardly ever see you anymore."
"No, I really—I have to go. Thank you for dinner. It was lovely." I'm already backing toward the door, grabbing my purse from where I left it on the side table. "I'll call you this week, Mom. Promise."
Dad's still sitting at the table, his whiskey glass in hand, and when I glance back at him, his eyes are sharp. Calculating.
He knows something is wrong. Maybe not what, but something.
"Drive safe," he calls after me.
I'm out the door and down the front steps before Mom can follow. In my car, I grip the steering wheel, my breath coming in short gasps.
He touched my stomach. Put his hand right there, where his grandchildren are growing.
I grab my phone out of my purse.
Me: I need you. Can I come over?
Grant's response is immediate.
Grant: Of course.
I start my car, pulling out of the driveway, from the house that has always felt like a prison.
My phone buzzes with another text from Grant.
Grant: Emma, are you okay? What happened?
I don't respond. Can't respond. Not while I'm driving, not while my hands are shaking, and my mind is racing with everything that just happened.
My father's hand on my stomach. His sharp eyes. His questions about Grant.
We're running out of time.
The secret is becoming impossible to keep, and when it comes out—when he finds out—it's going to destroy everything.
His friendship with Grant. His relationship with me. Maybe even the fragile family we're trying to build.
But as I navigate through the darkening streets toward Grant's penthouse, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I can't go back to that house. Can't sit through another dinner pretending everything is fine, fielding my father's controlling questions, watching my mother erase herself to keep the peace.
The pregnancy has to be revealed soon. And when it’s out in the open, I need to be strong enough—sure enough of who I am and what I want—to weather the storm.