Chapter 23 #2
"Why?" The question comes out harsher than I intend. "Why are you telling me this now?"
Samantha's jaw tightens. "Because I had a fight with my mom. A big one. And she—" She stops, her hands clenching into fists. "She told me what she did. About your investor. About how she killed your deal because she wanted to hurt my dad."
Oh, wow. This is a lot right now…
"She told you all that?"
"She actually bragged about it." Samantha's voice is raw with anger. "Said it was my father's own fault for—for getting involved with you. That you both needed to learn a lesson. She was laughing, Emma. Laughing about destroying your business like it was some kind of game."
I sink onto the arm of the sofa, concerned my legs can no longer hold me up.
"I knew she was manipulative," Samantha continues. "I knew she played games. But this—this is different. You didn't do anything to her. Your only crime was being with my dad. And she destroyed your chances just to—" Her voice breaks. "Just to hurt him. To hurt both of you."
Poppy moves closer to me, her hand finding my shoulder.
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask quietly.
"Because you deserve to know." Samantha wipes at her eyes. "And because I've been blaming you, for being with my dad, for—for everything. But none of this is your fault. It's hers. My mom is—"
She stops. Takes a breath.
"She's a monster," she says finally. "And I'm sorry I let her influence me."
The word—monster—echoes in the small space. I think of Victoria at that café, all polished charm and subtle cruelty. The way she made me feel small without ever raising her voice.
A monster in designer clothing.
"She's still your mother," I say softly.
"Yeah." Samantha's laugh is hollow. "Lucky me."
She moves to the window, staring out at the city. Her shoulders are tight, her whole body radiating tension.
"I have this memory," she says after a moment.
"From when I was little. My parents were fighting—they fought all the time back then, but this was bad.
My dad accused my mom of manipulating a business deal, of lying to someone to get what she wanted.
And she just... smiled. Told him that's how the world works. That only idiots play fair."
She turns back to face me. "I remember thinking my dad was being dramatic. That my mom was just smarter about how the world worked. But now I wonder how many times she did that. How many people she hurt just because she could."
The vulnerability in her voice makes me want to give her a hug.
"Samantha—"
"You're not what I thought," she interrupts. "When I met you at lunch, I just—I assumed the worst. Assumed you were using him for his money. That you got pregnant on purpose to trap him. But that's not it, is it?"
I shake my head slowly. "No. That's not it."
"You actually love him."
It's not a question, but I answer anyway. "Yes."
"And he loves you. Like, really loves you. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you." She swallows hard. "Not even my mom, back when they were happy."
She looks so damn sad.
"I'm not trying to take your dad away from you," I say carefully. "That was never—I never meant to hurt you."
"I know," Samantha says. "I think I knew that even at lunch. I was just so angry. At my dad for moving on. At you for existing." She stops. "I knew it was stupid of me, but I couldn’t stop."
Poppy clears her throat. "I'm going to make tea. Everyone want some tea?"
It's an obvious excuse to give us space, and I'm grateful for it. Samantha and I stand awkwardly in my living room, this girl I barely know who was so brave to come here today.
"Can I ask you something?" Samantha says.
"Sure."
"Why did you break up with my dad?"
I didn’t realize she knew, and the question startles me. "How did you—"
"He called me a few days ago and he sounded—" She pauses. "Destroyed. I've never heard my dad sound like that. Not even during the divorce."
Guilt crashes over me. "It's complicated."
"Because he offered to fund your business?"
I stare at her. "How much did he tell you?"
"Enough." She crosses her arms. "And Emma, I totally get it. I get being scared of depending on someone. My mom used my dad's money as a weapon my whole life. Made everything conditional. But my dad—he's not like that. He just wants to help you."
"That's what everyone keeps saying."
"Maybe because it's true." Samantha's voice is gentle. "Listen, I blamed him for the divorce, for working too much and never being home. But even when I was being a complete brat, he never stopped trying. Never stopped showing up. Never used money to buy my affection."
She moves closer, her expression earnest. "My mom does that. Throws money at problems, at people, at anything she can't control. But my dad—he offers help because he can't stand watching people he loves struggle. There's a big difference."
The words echo what Poppy said. What Grant himself said. What some part of me has known all along but was too scared to acknowledge.
"I don't know how to accept help without losing myself," I admit.
"Maybe you're stronger than you think." Samantha's smile is tentative.
Tears blur my vision. This girl—this eighteen-year-old who has every reason to hate me—is standing in my apartment offering me the exact words I need to hear.
"I'm sorry," I say. "For everything. For the pregnancy, for how much this has hurt you."
"Don't." Samantha shakes her head. "Don't apologize for loving him. Don't apologize for the twins. Just—" She pauses. "Just don't give up on him because you're scared. He's worth more than that."
Just then, Poppy walks in with three mugs of tea.
“I’m sorry,” Samantha says. “I really need to get going. I just wanted to come talk to you about all of this.”
“Are you sure? You’re welcome to stay.”
“No, really, it’s okay. I’ve got an exam tomorrow and I have zero idea what I’m doing in the class,” she says. “But thanks for letting me in. I don’t know if I would have if I were you.”
We both laugh quietly and I have that urge to hug her again. This time I go with it.
“Can I give you a hug?” I ask.
She smiles broadly and nods.
I lean in and we hug. When we separate, she looks down at my protruding belly.
“I’m looking forward to meeting those two,” she says.
I feel tears prick my eyes. “Me, too,” I say, laughing.
And I feel the smallest amount of hope seep into my body.