I don't respond. Can't respond. Not while I'm driving, not while my hands are shaking, and my mind is racing with everything that just happened.
My father's hand on my stomach. His sharp eyes. His questions about Grant.
We're running out of time.
The secret is becoming impossible to keep, and when it comes out—when he finds out—it's going to destroy everything.
His friendship with Grant. His relationship with me. Maybe even the fragile family we're trying to build.
But as I navigate through the darkening streets toward Grant's penthouse, I know one thing with absolute certainty:
I can't go back to that house. Can't sit through another dinner pretending everything is fine, fielding my father's controlling questions, watching my mother erase herself to keep the peace.
The pregnancy has to be revealed soon. And when it’s out in the open, I need to be strong enough—sure enough of who I am and what I want—to weather the storm.
Chapter 17
Emma
As soon as I enter the penthouse, Grant rushes to me.
“What happened? I was worried about you.”
I rush into his arms, dropping my purse on the floor, feeling the tears I've been holding back finally spill over. Grant's embrace is solid and warm—exactly what I need right now.
"My parents," I manage, barely able to get the words out. "I went to Sunday dinner and it was... it was awful, Grant."
He leads me to the couch, keeping one arm around my shoulders as we sit down. "Why didn’t you tell me you were going? Okay… tell me what happened."
"My dad—" I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. "He kept asking questions about why I've been avoiding them. And then he started talking about you, wondering why you haven't been available for golf." I look up at Grant, seeing the concern in his eyes. "And then he... he noticed something was different about me. He made me stand up, and he touched my stomach."
Grant's body goes rigid beside me. "He knows?"
"I don't think so. Not for sure. He just made some comment about me gaining weight, which was a total asshole thing to say." The memory makes my throat tighten. "But the way he was looking at me... I think he suspects something."
"Shit," Grant mutters, running a hand through his hair.
"The whole evening was just so tense. My mom trying to keep the peace while my dad interrogated me about Essence, about my life. It was like being a teenager again, having to account for every decision." I wipe at my tears with the back of my hand. "I couldn't breathe in that house, Grant. I’m not sure I can go back.”
“If he touched your stomach, he probably knows, Emma. Don’t you think?”
“Maybe… but if he knew, don’t you think he would’ve said something? It’s not like my father to hold back.”
Grant's expression turns serious. "Yeah—your father isn't known for subtlety. If he knew with absolute certainty, he probably would have exploded right there at the dinner table."
"That's what I keep thinking," I say, leaning back against the couch. "But what if he's just gathering evidence? Building his case before he confronts me?"
Grant reaches for my hand and squeezes it. "That sounds more like him. David's always been strategic. He doesn't make accusations until he's sure he can win the argument."
I nod, feeling a chill despite the warmth of Grant's body against mine. "And when he dropped your name into conversation… and asked why you've been unavailable for golf… It wasn't casual, Grant. He was watching for my reaction."
"And how did you react?"
"I panicked. Said something about you being busy with an acquisition. Which was stupid because then he immediately asked how I would know that." I press my face into my hands. "God, I'm terrible at lying."
"You're not terrible at it. You're just not practiced at it." Grant pulls me closer. "And that's actually a good thing."
We sit in silence for a moment, both lost in thought. The city lights twinkle through the floor-to-ceiling windows, beautiful and distant.
