"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.
Chapter 24
Emma
Iwake up to sunlight slicing through the gap in my curtains, and for one blissful second, I forget everything.
Then it all crashes back.
The breakup. Grant's devastated face. Samantha's apology. The twins growing inside me while my entire life falls apart.
I sit up slowly, the blankets falling away. My apartment looks the same as it did yesterday—small, cluttered, my tea mug sitting on the nightstand. But something feels different.
Me. I feel different.
Less like a victim of circumstance and more like an idiot who threw away something precious because I was too scared to hold onto it.
I finally stand up and move to the bathroom. My reflection is still a disaster—puffy eyes, tangled hair, the general aesthetic of someone who's spent too many days crying. But underneath the wreckage, I see something else.
Clarity, maybe.
I was wrong and the admission stings. But it's also strangely freeing.
Grant isn't my father. I've known that intellectually for months. But yesterday, listening to Samantha defend him—hearing her describe the difference between Victoria's manipulation and Grant's genuine care—something finally clicked.
My father uses money to control. Grant uses it to empower.
My father dismisses dreams. Grant invests in them.
