I don't know what to say to that. Don't know why he's telling me this.
"When she was little, I thought I was being a good father," he continues. "I provided everything she could possibly need. The best schools, the best opportunities. I made sure she never had to worry about money or security or any of the things I worried about growing up." He pauses. "It never occurred to me that what she actually needed was my time. My attention. Not my bank account."
Understanding flickers through me. "You're saying you made the same mistakes with her that my father made with my mother."
"I'm saying I solved problems instead of being present." He looks at me, and there's something raw in his expression. "I'm saying I understand why you're afraid of me trying to fix everything. Because I will try. It's my default. But Emma, I don't want to make the same mistakes with you that I made with Samantha. Or with Victoria."
The honesty in his voice makes me want to believe him. And harder to keep my walls up.
"I don't know how to accept help without losing myself," I admit quietly. "To allow someone to support me without it turning into something else."
"Then we'll figure it out together." He says it simply, like it's that easy. "You tell me when I'm overstepping. I'll work on being curious instead of taking control. We'll—" He stops, then chuckles. "We'll probably mess it up repeatedly. But we'll try."
A jogger passes us, and we step aside on the path. My mind is racing, trying to find the flaw in what he's saying. The trap. Because there has to be a trap, doesn't there? Men like Grant don't just listen. They fix. They control. They take over.
But the man walking beside me doesn't look like he's trying to control anything. He looks tired and probably as scared as I am.
"I need Essence to work," I say, the words coming out with a desperate edge. "It's not just about money or success or proving something to my father. It's the only thing in my life that's completely mine. The only thing I've built that no one else can take credit for. If I lose that?—"
"You won't lose it."
"You can't know that."
"No," Grant agrees. "But I can promise I won't be the reason you lose it. If you'll let me help, it'll be on your terms. I'll just—" He pauses, clearly choosing his words carefully. "I'll be on your board for consultations. Not trying to take the whole thing over."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly it scares me.
"What if you can't help yourself?" The question comes out small. "What if you see me struggling and your instinct is to fix it, and you can't stop yourself?"
"Then you call me on it." He stops walking again, turning to face me fully. "You tell me I'm doing it again, and I'll back off. I'm going to screw this up, Emma. Probably more than once. But I'm asking you to trust that I'll try. That when you tell me I'm overstepping, I'll listen."
The park stretches around us, green and calm and completely at odds with the chaos in my chest. I look at Grant's face—at the honesty in his eyes, the tension in his jaw, the way he's standing there asking me to trust him despite knowing all my reasons not to.
"I'm really scared," I whisper. “The pregnancy, the twins, the way my entire life is about to change. I'm terrified."
"That's fair." His voice is gentle.
"And you're not scared?"
He laughs and shakes his head. "I'm forty-two years old, Emma. I already have one daughter who can't stand me and an ex-wife who's probably planning my murder as we speak. Now I'm having twins with a twenty-four-year-old woman who's determined not to need me, and when your father finds out, he'll definitely join in on Victoria’s plan to murder me." He meets my eyes. "I'm absolutely terrified."
Despite everything, I feel myself smile. "Do you really think it’s going to be that bad?"
"Your dad has a temper. And access to construction equipment."
"He does love a good excavator."
"See? I'm a dead man."
The absurdity of it—of standing in a park discussing my father's potential violence—breaks something loose in my me. I laugh. It comes out shaky and a little unhinged, but it's real.
Grant's expression softens. "There she is."
"Who?"
"The woman from the plane. The one who made me actually care about sustainable fragrance sourcing."
The memory hits me with unexpected force. The flight to Florence. The way Grant listened to me ramble about perfume like it was the most fascinating thing he'd ever heard. The way I'd felt safe enough to be completely myself.
