Chapter 19
Grant
Ihold Emma tighter as she continues to sob against my chest. The sound tears through me, a physical ache I can't soothe. Her entire body shakes with each breath, and I feel completely powerless. Twenty years of business deals, of solving impossible problems, and I have no solution for this.
The thought of David's face—the betrayal, the rage—makes me sick. I've known him for so long. We've traveled together, celebrated victories, mourned losses. And now it's over.
But it's Emma I'm worried about. The way she crumpled when he walked out. The devastation in her eyes.
"I can't believe he just—" She hiccups, unable to finish the sentence.
"I know, baby. I know." I stroke her hair, feeling the dampness of her tears soaking through my shirt. "Just breathe. We'll figure this out."
But how? The question echoes through my mind with no answer.
Minutes pass. Her sobs gradually quiet to shaky breaths, though her grip on my shirt remains desperate, like I'm the only thing keeping her from drowning.
My mind shifts to practical concerns. She's pregnant. Upset. Hasn't eaten in hours. Stress isn't good for her or the babies.
"Are you hungry?" I ask softly. "I could make you something. Or order in."
She pulls back slightly and looks at me. “I’m pretty sure I won’t be able to eat a thing.”
“But you need to, baby. You have to at least try.”
I gently press my lips to her forehead. "Come here," I murmur, easing her down onto the couch. I grab the throw pillow and place it behind her head, then pull the soft blanket from the back of the sofa and drape it over her legs.
"Just rest here for a minute," I say softly. "Let me see what I can find."
Her fingers catch mine as I start to pull away. "Grant—"
"I'm not going anywhere," I promise. "Just to the kitchen."
She nods, releasing my hand reluctantly. I watch her curl onto her side, one hand instinctively moving to her stomach.
In her tiny kitchen, I open cabinets searching for something simple I can make.
The contents are sparse—Emma's been staying at my place most nights lately.
I find a can of tomato soup pushed to the back of one cabinet and pull it out.
In the refrigerator, there's bread, butter and a half-empty package of cheese slices.
Not exactly gourmet, but it will do. Simple comfort food might be exactly what she needs right now.
I put the soup in a pot to heat and grab a small pan for the sandwiches. As I work, I keep glancing back at Emma on the couch. She looks so small, so vulnerable. The fiery, independent woman I've come to love reduced to this fragile state by her father's horrible words.
I butter the bread for the grilled cheese sandwiches, watching as they slowly brown in the pan. The familiar task gives my hands something useful to do while my mind continues to race. I flip the sandwiches, then stir the soup that's starting to bubble.
When everything is ready, I plate it up and carry it to the living room. Emma hasn't moved from her position on the couch, but her eyes follow me as I set the food down on the coffee table.
"Here," I say softly, sitting beside her. "Nothing fancy, but it's something."
She sits up slowly, the blanket pooling around her waist. Her face is still blotchy from crying, eyes puffy and red, but she looks at the simple meal and tries to smile at me.
"Thank you," she whispers, reaching for the bowl of soup.
We eat in silence, the only sound the occasional clink of spoons against bowls. I watch her from the corner of my eye, relieved to see color gradually returning to her cheeks as she eats.
To my surprise, she finishes almost her entire bowl of soup and most of the sandwich. I'd expected her to just push the food around, too upset to eat, but apparently her body's needs overruled her emotional state.
When she sets down her spoon, Emma looks at me with tired eyes. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."
"Your body knows what it needs. I’m glad you were able to listen.”
She takes my hand, her fingers twining with mine. "Will you stay tonight? I don't want to be alone."
"Of course," I say immediately. We rarely spend the night at her place—my king-sized bed is more comfortable than her full, especially with my height—but right now, the last thing I want is to make her leave the safety of her own space. "I'm not going anywhere."
Relief washes over her face. "Thank you."
I take the dishes to the kitchen and wash them quickly. When I return, Emma's curled up on the couch again, remote in hand, flipping through streaming options.
"Maybe we could just watch something mindless," she suggests. "I need a distraction."
"Good idea." I settle beside her, pulling her against my side. She immediately melts into me, her head finding that spot on my chest that seems made for her.
She selects a baking competition show—nothing that requires much thought. Perfect for tonight. I kiss the top of her head, breathing in the faint scent of her shampoo.
An hour later, I realize neither of us is actually watching. Emma's gaze is fixed on the screen, but her eyes have that distant look that tells me she's somewhere else entirely. My own thoughts keep circling back to David's face, to the venom in his voice when he called me a predator.
"I keep thinking about what he said," Emma whispers.
"Me too," I admit, feeling the weight of David's accusations. "But Emma, listen to me. He was hurt and lashing out. He just found out his best friend is with his daughter. That's a shock for any father."
I gently tilt her chin up so she's looking at me. Her eyes are bloodshot, doubt clouding their usual brightness.
"He's going to come around eventually," I continue, trying to sound more confident than I feel.
"Once he sees how happy we are together, how committed I am to you and our children. This isn't going to be forever."
Emma's expression remains skeptical. "But the look on his face when he walked out—he meant what he said."
"People say things they don't mean when they're in shock." I stroke her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear. "Your father loves you. That doesn't just disappear overnight."
"But what if it does?" Her voice is small, fragile. "What if he never wants to see me again? What if our children grow up without knowing their grandfather?"
The fear in her voice makes my heart ache. I pull her closer, pressing my lips to her forehead.
"That's not going to happen," I say firmly. "David is stubborn, yes, but he's not cruel. He'll cool down, and then we can try to talk to him again."
She nods her head and tries her best to look hopeful.
“I think I’m ready for sleep,” she says. “You?”
"I'm exhausted too," I reply, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me. This confrontation with David has drained us both.
I follow Emma to her small bedroom, watching as she moves through her nighttime routine with mechanical motions. She seems almost in a trance, going through the familiar steps while her mind is clearly elsewhere.
In the bathroom, she starts brushing her teeth, and I lean against the doorframe, not wanting to crowd her but unwilling to let her out of my sight.
She rinses her mouth and then runs her fingers through her hair with a frustrated sigh. "Shoot, I need to wash my hair. I have a shift at the restaurant in the morning and it's a greasy mess."
"Let me wash it for you," I offer, the words surprising even me.
Emma turns, toothbrush still in hand, her expression confused. "What?"
"Your hair. Let me wash it for you." I step closer. "You're exhausted, and I want to help."
She studies my face, searching for something. "You want to wash my hair?"
"Yes." I hold her gaze, trying to convey everything I can't put into words—how desperately I need to take care of her right now, how powerless I feel in the face of her pain, how this small act might be the only comfort I can offer.
She nods, her eyes meeting mine for a moment before she turns away to adjust the shower temperature.
I watch as she pulls her shirt over her head, revealing the delicate curve of her spine.
Something about her vulnerability in this moment makes my chest ache.
She steps out of her leggings, and I'm struck again by the small swell of her stomach, the visible evidence of our children growing inside her.
I undress quickly while Emma grabs an extra towel for me from under the sink. She hands it to me, her movements hesitant, almost shy, despite all the times we've been together. This feels different somehow. More intimate.
We step into the shower together, the warm water cascading over us.
For a long moment, we just hold each other, skin to skin, letting the heat surround us.
I feel her heartbeat against my chest, the gentle curve of her stomach pressed against me.
I run my hands slowly up and down her back, feeling each muscle.
She sighs deeply, her body melting against mine.
"That feels good," she murmurs, her voice barely audible over the rush of water.
I continue the gentle massage, working my way up to her shoulders, feeling the knots of tension there. Her head drops forward, giving me better access, and I press my thumbs into the tight muscles at the base of her neck.
"Where’s your shampoo?" I ask.
She reaches for a tall cream bottle and hands it to me. I pop the cap and pour some into my hand.
I work the shampoo gently through her wet hair.
My fingers massage her scalp in slow, deliberate circles, and I feel her lean into my touch.
She sighs softly as I work from her temples to the crown of her head, then down to the nape of her neck.
The familiar scent of her shampoo—something floral with a hint of vanilla—fills the steamy air around us.
"Close your eyes," I murmur, carefully tilting her head back slightly to keep the suds from running down her face.
My thumbs trace small circles at her hairline while my fingers work through the length of her hair.
I've never done this for anyone before, not even Victoria during our twenty years together, and there's something profoundly intimate about it that catches me off guard.
When her hair is totally soaped up, I guide her under the spray, shielding her eyes with one hand while I rinse the suds away with the other.
"One more time," I say, reaching for the bottle again. "I hear that's what women do."
She gives me a small smile, the first genuine one I've seen since her father walked out.
I pour more shampoo into my palm. This time, my movements are more confident as I massage her scalp, taking my time to work through each section of her hair. I can feel her relaxing even more under my touch, her shoulders dropping away from her ears.
"Do you need conditioner?" I ask, my voice low against the sound of running water.
"No, I use the leave-in kind," she says, leaning back slightly into my hands. "I'll put it in after we get out."
I guide her under the spray again, watching as the water carries the suds down her back, over the gentle curve of her hips.
We quickly wash our bodies with soap, my hands moving efficiently over her skin, not lingering despite how much I want to touch her.
This isn't about that right now. It's about comfort. Connection.
We rinse off and I shut off the water, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around Emma before I grab my own towel. She's shivering slightly despite the steam filling the small bathroom.
"Here," I say, rubbing her arms through the towel. "Let's get you warm."
Emma reaches for a bottle on the counter—her leave-in conditioner—and works a small amount through her hair.
We move into the bedroom, both of us wrapped in towels. Emma puts on one of my t-shirts that she's claimed as her own while I pull on a pair of spare boxers I keep here.
We climb into her bed together, the full mattress forcing us to lie close. Not that I'm complaining—I want to hold her right now, to feel her against me, to remind myself that despite everything that happened today, we still have this.
She settles against my side, her head on my chest, one leg thrown over mine. I wrap my arm around her shoulders, my other hand finding its familiar resting place on her stomach.
"Better?" I ask, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.
"Mmm," she murmurs, her voice already heavy with exhaustion. "Thank you for washing my hair. That was... so nice."
"Anytime."
We lie in silence for a while, the only sound our breathing and the occasional distant siren from the street below. My mind won't stop replaying David's face, his words, the way Emma crumpled when he walked out. But I need to be strong for her right now. Need to find some way to ease her pain.
"I love you, Emma," I whisper into her damp hair. "And I promise you, everything is going to be okay."
She shifts slightly against me, her breath warm on my skin. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because we have each other. And that's enough." I tighten my arms around her, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. "We're going to get through this together."
Emma makes a small sound—half agreement, half exhaustion—and nestles closer. Within minutes, her breathing deepens and evens out as she drifts into sleep. I lie awake a little longer, my mind still racing with everything that happened today.
I force myself to breathe slowly, matching my rhythm to Emma's. Tomorrow will bring new challenges. New battles. But for tonight, she's safe in my arms.