"We should go." Grant's already signaling for the check. "Let’s stop somewhere else for a quick bite and then I'll take you home. Or back to my place. Wherever you want."
"My apartment." The words come out automatic. "I need—I should work. I have samples to finish."
He looks like he wants to argue but nods instead. "Okay. Let me just?—"
He handles the bill and then we're outside in the bright afternoon sun. His car is already pulling up, his driver somehow always exactly where Grant needs him to be.
“I don’t have time to go somewhere else to eat,” I say. “I have some soup at home I can warm up.”
Grant just nods.
The ride to my apartment is silent. Grant holds my hand but I can't seem to find words. Can't sort through the mess of emotions I’m feeling.
Humiliation. That's the dominant one. The way Samantha looked at me, like I was something dirty. Something shameful.
But beneath that—fear. Because she's not wrong about everything. I am significantly younger than Grant. We have been together for less than two months. And yes, I've spent the last week sleeping in his penthouse, surrounded by wealth I could never afford on my own.
What if she's right? What if I'm kidding myself about being independent, about maintaining my sense of self? What if everyone who looks at us sees exactly what Samantha sees—a young woman latching onto an older, richer man?
The car stops outside my building, and Grant finally breaks the silence.
"I'm coming up with you."
"Grant—"
"I'm not leaving you like this, Emma. Please."
I'm too tired to argue. I let him follow me up the narrow stairs to my apartment—the apartment that suddenly feels impossibly small and shabby after spending time in his penthouse.
Inside, Grant closes the door and pulls me into his arms. I let him, resting my cheek against his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
"I'm so sorry," he says into my hair. "I can’t believe how rude she was to you."
"She hates me."
"She doesn't hate you. She barely knows you."
"She knows enough." I pull back, looking up at him. "Grant, she's not entirely wrong. About the age gap, about how crazy this all is—" My voice cracks. "I'm terrified that everyone's going to look at us the way she did."
His hands frame my face, gentle but firm. "Everyone else doesn't matter. What matters is how we feel about each other."
"But your daughterdoesmatter. Your family matters." Tears prick my eyes. "Grant, I'm not just dating you. I'm stepping into your whole life—your ex-wife, your daughter, your world. And I don't fit. Samantha made that pretty clear."
"You do fit. You fit with me."
"Do I?" The question comes out small. Vulnerable. "Because right now, I feel like I'm playing dress-up in a life that isn't mine."
"You're not?—"
"She thinks I'm using you for your money.” The words taste bitter. “And Grant, the worst part? I can see how it looks from the outside. Young woman, older rich man, immediately pregnant. It's a cliché. And a bad one at that."
"It's our life," he says firmly. "And it's not a cliché. It's complicated and messy and happened faster than either of us expected, but what we have is real."
I want to believe him. But all I can see is Samantha's face. The contempt. The disgust.
"I think you should go," I say quietly.
Grant's hands drop from my face. "Emma?—"
