"Grant and I aren't—" I start, but she interrupts, gentle and firm.
"I know, dear. You're not trying to replace me. I know you're a lovely girl with perfectly good intentions. After all, I’ve known you since you were a child." She takes another sip of her cappuccino. "But you should know what you're getting into. The scrutiny, the pressure, the constant comparisons. People will always wonder if you're with him for the right reasons. They'll whisper. Question your motives." Her eyes drop to my sweater—my Target sweater that suddenly feels like a neon sign announcing my inadequacy. "It takes tremendous strength to stand beside someone like Grant. To be his equal, not just his... companion."
The word "companion" drips with condescension. Not partner. Not girlfriend. Companion. Like I'm a sex worker.
I should defend myself. Should tell her that Grant and I are building something real, that what we have is about more than his money or status. But my voice won't work. I'm trapped in her spotlight, every insecurity I've ever had about this relationship bubbling to the surface.
"I can see I've upset you." Victoria's expression shifts to concern, but it's as carefully constructed as everything else about her. "That wasn't my intention at all. I simply thought you deserved to know what you're walking into. Woman to woman." She reaches across the table, patting my hand. Her skin is cool, her touch brief. "Grant is a wonderful man. But he's also a complicated one. And his world—our world—it's not easy to navigate."
"I appreciate your concern," I say, and I'm proud that my voice doesn't shake. "But Grant and I are fine."
"Of course you are. Right now." Her smile is indulgent. "These early weeks are always magical, aren't they? But when reality sets in—the business demands, the social obligations, the endless scrutiny—that's when you discover whether something is built to last." She finishes her cappuccino and dabs her lips with a napkin. "I do hope you're prepared for that, Emma. For Grant's sake, if nothing else. He's been through so much already."
The implication being that I'm going to hurt him. That I'm too young, too naive, too unsuited to his world to be anything but another disappointment.
Victoria stands, collecting her purse—another piece of designer perfection I can't afford. "It was lovely chatting with you. What good luck that we ran into each other." She adjusts her trench coat, every movement practiced elegance.
She pats my hand again and glides away, her heels clicking on the tile floor. The door chimes as she leaves, and then she's gone, disappearing into the afternoon crowd like she was never here.
I sit frozen at my table, my barely touched latte growing cold.
I press my shaking hands flat against the table, trying to stop the tremor, but it spreads through my whole body. Around me, the cafe continues its normal rhythm—people orderingcoffee, tapping on laptops, having ordinary conversations. Nobody noticed what just happened. Nobody saw Victoria Cross systematically tear me down.
I pull out my phone, staring at Grant's unanswered text from yesterday.
I love you.
But Victoria loves him too. In her way. Twenty years of history, a daughter, an empire built together. What do I have? Eight weeks and a pregnancy that might be the only reason he's with me.
No. That's not true. Grant cares about me. He's shown up, been present, wiped my tears.
But Victoria's voice echoes in my head.He always comes back to things of real value.
I grab my notebook and stuff it in my bag, nearly knocking over my latte. I need to get out of here.
Outside, the April sunshine feels too bright, too cheerful. I walk without direction, letting my feet carry me down familiar streets while my mind spins.
Every word Victoria uttered was carefully chosen to hit exactly where I'm most vulnerable. My age. My inexperience. My fear that I don't belong in Grant's world.
And the worst part? She wasn't wrong about everything. The scrutiny is real. The comparisons are inevitable. People will question my motives, will wonder if I'm with Grant for his money. Samantha obviously already does.
My phone buzzes.
Grant:How are you feeling today? I've been thinking about you.
I stare at the message. What do I say? That his ex-wife just cornered me in a cafe and made me feel like a naive child playing dress-up? That she implied I'm just his latest enthusiasm, a shiny new thing that will lose its luster?
That she might be right?
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I can't form a response. Can't articulate the complicated mess of emotions tangled in my chest.
I keep walking, and finally end up back at my apartment. The familiar space should be comforting, but it feels different now.
I sink onto my stool and pull out my notebook, staring at my formulas. This is what I know. This is what I'm good at. Not navigating the treacherous waters of Grant's world, not standing up to elegant, sophisticated women who've spent twenty years mastering the art of psychological warfare.
Just scent. Just chemistry. Just the passion I've poured everything into.
My phone buzzes again.
