Chapter 23
Emma
The ceiling has a water stain shaped like Italy.
I've been staring at it for the last hour, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets on my sofa, and the irony isn't lost on me. Italy. Where this whole disaster started. Where I made the choice that led to every single catastrophic thing that's happened since.
My phone buzzes for the umpteenth time. I don't look at it.
Could be Grant. Or Poppy. Could be some automated reminder that my life is falling apart and I have bills due.
Doesn't matter. I'm not answering.
I did my morning shift at the restaurant earlier, and that’s all I can manage for the day. At least when I’m there, I’m too busy to think about everything else.
When I’m home alone, the fight with Grant plays on a loop in my head, a highlight reel of my own worst moments. His face when I compared him to my father. The way his voice cracked when I said I couldn't be with him. The devastation in his eyes when I walked away.
My chest aches like something's broken inside it. Which is stupid because hearts don't actually break. They just keep beating, keep forcing you to stay alive even when you've destroyed the best thing that ever happened to you.
The phone buzzes again. I burrow deeper into the blankets.
My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since breakfast. I really should get up and make myself something to eat. But I just can’t find the energy
Another buzz. Then another.
"Go away," I mutter to the phone.
It doesn't listen. Just keeps buzzing with the persistence of someone who knows me well enough to be worried.
Poppy, probably. She's texted me approximately sixty times just since yesterday. Variations on the same theme: Are you okay? Call me. Emma, seriously, I'm coming over if you don't respond.
I should answer. Should let her know I'm alive, at least. But that would require moving.
So I stay cocooned. Stay staring at ceiling-Italy. Stay replaying the moment I chose my fear over the man I love.
The twins flutter inside me. Something that's becoming more frequent now that I'm eighteen weeks along. They're the size of bell peppers, according to the app. Growing completely oblivious to the fact that their mother just destroyed their family before it even had a chance to begin.
Fresh tears leak from the corners of my eyes, sliding into my hair.
I'm so tired of crying. Tired of feeling like I'm simultaneously making the right choice and the worst mistake of my life.
You're letting fear destroy what we have.
Grant's words. Accurate and devastating.
The phone buzzes again, but this time it's followed by a different sound.
A key in my lock.
I sit up so fast the blankets slide to the floor, my heart suddenly racing. Grant has a key. He insisted after I got locked out that one time, and I let him make a copy because it seemed practical, and—
But it's not Grant who walks through my door.
It's Poppy.
She's wearing her signature combat boots and a vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled into a high ponytail. She takes one look at me—blanket cocoon, tear-stained face, general disaster aesthetic—and her expression shifts from worry to something harder.
Determination.
"Okay," she says, dropping her bag by the door. "Intervention time."
"I don't need an intervention." My voice comes out hoarse from disuse. "I need to be left alone."
"Nope. Not happening." She crosses to the sofa and physically moves my legs so she can sit. "You've been ignoring my texts. You look like you haven’t showered since I don’t know when. And unless I'm very wrong, you're currently having a breakdown of epic proportions."
"I'm fine."
"Emma." Her voice goes soft. "You're many things right now, but fine isn't one of them."
The gentleness in her tone cracks me open. Fresh tears well up, and I press my hands against my eyes, trying to stop them.
"I can’t believe I broke up with him," I whisper. “I told him I couldn't be with him. That accepting his help would make me—would turn me into—"
"Your mother. Yeah, babe, I got that part." Poppy's hand finds mine, squeezing. "And I love you. You know I love you. But Emma, we need to talk about what you did."
I pull my hands away from my eyes. "What I did? Poppy, he tried to buy my company. Tried to solve my problems with his damn money."
"He offered to invest in your business after his psycho ex-wife sabotaged your investor situation." Poppy's voice is calm and rational. The tone she uses when she's about to say something I won't want to hear. "That's not the same thing as controlling you."
"Isn't it?" I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. "It's exactly what my father would do. See a problem, throw money at it, and expect complete compliance in return."
"Grant isn't your father."
I shake my head. "But the pattern's the same. Powerful man, younger woman, his resources solving her problems. How long before I'm just another thing he owns?"
Poppy is quiet for a long moment. When she speaks again, her voice has an edge I rarely hear.
"Do you hear yourself right now?"
I blink. "What?"
"Emma, I've been your best friend since we were sixteen. I've watched you fight like hell to build this. I've cheered you on every step of the way. But right now? Right now, you're so scared of becoming your mother that you can't see what’s actually going on."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not—"
"It is." She cuts me off, her expression fierce. "Your mom didn't just accept help from your dad. She gave up and stopped fighting. Let your dad make every decision until she forgot how to make her own. But Emma, that's not who you are. You would never let anyone do that to you."
"You don't know that."
"I do know that." Poppy grabs both my hands, forcing me to look at her.
"You're the most stubborn, independent, fiercely determined person I know.
You bootstrapped a business with no help, no family money, no safety net.
You stood up to your father when he tried to control you.
You've been fighting your whole life to be your own person.
Accepting money from a man who loves you isn't going to undo all of that. "
"But what if it does?" The question comes out small. Scared. "What if I take his money and it feels good? What if I start depending on him and forget how to depend on myself?"
"Then I'll kick your ass." Poppy's smile is gentle. "That's what best friends are for. But Emma, here's the thing you're missing—partnership isn't the same as dependency. Letting someone help you doesn't mean losing yourself. It just means you're not alone anymore."
I want to argue. Want to explain all the ways she's wrong, all the reasons I can't risk it.
But the words won't come.
Because I feel more alone than I've ever felt.
And maybe—maybe—that's not the victory I thought it was.
"I love him," I whisper.
"I know."
"But I’m so scared."
"I know that too." Poppy squeezes my hands. "But Emma, love is supposed to make you feel vulnerable. That's the whole point. You can't have the good parts without the scary parts."
"What if the scary parts win?"
"What if they don't?" She tilts her head. "What if you take the risk, accept his help, and you build something amazing together? What if letting him in doesn't make you smaller, but bigger?"
The possibility sits between us.
Before I can respond, before I can really process what she's saying, my buzzer sounds.
We both freeze.
"Are you expecting someone?" Poppy asks.
"No." My heart starts racing. "Grant wouldn't—he doesn't buzz, he has a key."
The buzzer sounds again. Longer this time. More insistent.
Poppy and I exchange a look. She shrugs, and I stand on unsteady legs, moving to the intercom.
"Hello?"
"Emma?" The voice is young. Female. Vaguely familiar. "It's Samantha. Samantha Cross. Can I—can I come up?"
What the actual fuck.
Samantha. Grant's daughter. The girl who looked at me like I was something disgusting at that disastrous lunch. Who made it crystal clear that she would never accept me.
"What?" The word comes out strangled.
"Please." Her voice cracks slightly. "I just—I need to talk to you. It's important."
I look at Poppy. She's standing now, her expression wary.
"Do you want me to tell her to leave?" she asks quietly.
I should. Should tell Samantha I have nothing to say to her. That I don't have the energy for round two.
But something in her voice stops me.
"Come on up," I say, and press the button.
The next thirty seconds are excruciating. Poppy and I stand in tense silence. My heart hammers against my ribs. My palms are sweaty.
This could be anything. Another attack. More accusations. Maybe Victoria sent her.
A knock on the door.
I take a deep breath and open it.
Samantha stands in the hallway, and she looks—very different. Not the polished, hostile girl from the restaurant. Her hair is limp and greasy. Her eyes are red-rimmed. She's wearing jeans and a hoodie instead of designer clothes.
She definitely looks like she's been crying.
"Hi," she says quietly.
"Hi."
We stare at each other. The silence stretches uncomfortably.
"Can I—" She gestures vaguely at my apartment. "Can I come in?"
I step aside, and she walks past me into the living room. Poppy is standing by the sofa, arms crossed, her expression protective, like she’s definitely not going to put up with any of this girl’s shit.
"This is Poppy," I say. "My best friend. Poppy, this is Samantha. Grant's daughter."
"I’ve heard about you," Poppy says, her tone icy.
Samantha flinches. "Yeah. About that." She turns to me, her hands twisting together. "That's why I'm here, actually. To apologize."
The unexpected words hang in the air.
"Apologize?" I repeat slowly, wondering if I’d misunderstood.
"I was horrible to you." Samantha's voice shakes. "The things I said—I was cruel and judgmental and completely out of line. Emma, I'm sorry."
I can only stare at her. This is so far from what I expected that my brain can't quite process it.