I move fast, changing out of my robe into jeans and a sweater. I pull my hair into a low ponytail, and swipe on mascara.
The twins flutter again, and I press my hand to my stomach.
"We're going to see your dad," I whisper. "And I'm going to fix this. I promise."
My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks determined.
I grab my keys and my purse and head for the door.
The subway ride to Grant's building feels eternal. Every stop, every delay, every moment sitting in the rattling car makes my anxiety spike higher.
The subway finally reaches my stop. I take the stairs two at a time, emerging onto the street in Grant's neighborhood. The buildings here are different from mine—taller, cleaner, dripping with the kind of old money that built this city.
Grant's building is at the end of the block.
The doorman recognizes me, waves me through with a kind smile. The elevator ride up to the penthouse is smooth and silent. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks pale. Nervous.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open directly into Grant's penthouse.
And there he is.
Standing by the windows, the city spread out behind him like a painting. He's in charcoal-gray slacks and a crisp white button-down. He turns when he hears the elevator, and the expression on his face when he sees me steals my breath.
Hope. Fear. Love. All of it written across his features with painful honesty.
"Hi," I say with a shaky voice.
"Hi." He doesn't move toward me. Doesn't close the distance. Just stands there, giving me space to decide what happens next.
That restraint—that respect for my autonomy even now—makes tears well up again.
He waits patiently despite the tension radiating from his shoulders.
I take a breath.
"I was wrong."
The admission cracks something open in me. "About so many things. About you. About us. About what accepting help means." Tears stream down my face now, but I don't wipe them away. "You weren't trying to buy me or control me. You were trying to be my partner. And I was too scared to see the difference."
Grant's expression softens. But he still doesn't move toward me.
"You were protecting yourself," he says quietly. "Emma, I understand why?—"
"No." I shake my head. "Don't make excuses for me. I hurt you. I compared you to my father when you're nothing like him. I threw your love back in your face because I was too scared to trust you." My voice breaks. "I'm so sorry."
The silence that follows feels endless.
Then Grant crosses the room in three long strides and pulls me into his arms.
I collapse into him, my face pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear again. He's warm and solid and achingly familiar, and being held by him feels like coming home.
"I'm so sorry," I whisper again, the words muffled against his shirt.
"Shh." His hand runs through my hair, gentle and soothing. "Emma, it's okay. We're okay."
"Are we?" I pull back just enough to look up at him. "After everything I said? After I walked away?"
His thumb brushes the tears from my cheek. "You came back. That's what matters."
