"Stop it." My voice comes out stronger than I feel. "Stop talking about me like I'm not here. Like I don't get a say in my own life."
My father's attention snaps back to me. "Your life? Emma, you threw your life away the moment you got into bed with him."
The words hit like a slap. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" His voice rises again. "You want to talk about fair? Is it fair that I have to find out my daughter is pregnant from a photograph? That I had to hear from Victoria Cross—of all people—that my best friend has been fucking my daughter behind my back?"
Victoria. Of course it was Victoria.
"She sent you this?" Grant's voice is tight with barely controlled rage.
"She did me a favor." My father's smile is vicious. "She was concerned about you, Grant. Thought you might be having some kind of breakdown after the divorce. Mentioned she'd seen you with a younger woman and wanted to make sure you weren't being taken advantage of." He laughs bitterly. "Imagine my surprise when I realized the woman in question was Emma."
"Dad, listen?—"
"No." He holds up a hand. "I'm done listening. Done with the excuses and the justifications and the—" He gestures at my stomach. "The evidence of your poor judgment."
Tears burn my eyes. "It's not poor judgment. I love him."
"You're twenty-four years old, Emma. You don't know what love is."
"I know I don't want to end up like Mom." The words explode out of me before I can stop them. "Trapped in a marriage where I'm not allowed to have my own dreams or opinions. Where every decision I make has to be approved by you."
My father goes very still. "What did you just say?"
"You heard me." I'm shaking now, but I can't stop. "I've spent my whole life watching you control every aspect of Mom's life. Watching her give up her art because you thought it was a waste of time. Watching her defer to you on every decision. And I swore I would never let that happen to me."
"Your mother is happy."
"Is she? Or has she just learned that it's easier to be happy than to fight you?"
The silence that follows is deafening.
Then my father's face hardens into something cold and terrible. "I see. So this is my fault. I drove you into the arms of a predator because I'm such a terrible father."
"He's not a predator."
"He's forty-two years old and you're pregnant with his twins. What else would you call him?"
"I'd call him the man I love." My voice breaks. "The man who supports my dreams instead of dismissing them. Who treats me like an equal instead of a child. Who makes me feel valued for who I am, not who he wants me to be."
My father flinches like I've struck him. "I have always valued you."
"You've always tried to control me. There's a big difference."
"I tried to protect you." His voice rises again. "To guide you. To save you from making the exact kind of mistake you've just made."
"This isnota mistake."
"No?" He gestures at my stomach. "Then what is it? What do you call getting pregnant by a man who should have known better? A man who—" He turns back to Grant, his face beet red. "A man who was supposed to be my friend."
"I am your friend," Grant says quietly. "Or I was. I know you'll never believe this, David, but I never wanted to hurt you."
"Then you should have kept your hands off my daughter."
"I couldn't." Grant's voice is rough. "I tried. After Florence, I told myself it was a mistake. That we'd never see each other again. But then she told me she was pregnant, and I—" He stops, his jaw working. "I couldn't walk away."
"How noble." My father's voice drips with sarcasm. "You couldn't keep it in your pants, so now you're playing the devoted father-to-be. Tell me, Grant, is this about Emma? Or is this about proving you can do it better the second time around?"
