And I would rather lose Grant than lose myself.
Even if it kills me.
Chapter 22
Grant
I've been staring out my office window for the better part of an hour, watching the gray morning light crawl across Manhattan's skyline, and I can't shake the feeling that things will never feel right in my life again.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass, superimposed over the cityscape. I look like hell. I have dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and I can’t remember the last time I shaved.
It was before Emma told me she can't be with me.
The memory hits like a physical blow, sharp enough that I have to press my palm against the window to steady myself. Her face. The devastation in her eyes. The way her voice cracked when she said it.
I can still see the tears streaming down her face. Hear the exact inflection in her voice when she said the thing that's been playing on repeat in my head for the last week.
I can't be with you.
I move away from the window, unable to stand still. My office—forty-second floor, corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides—suddenly feels like a cage. All this space, all thisexpensive furniture and carefully curated art, and I can't breathe.
I sink into my chair—Italian leather, custom-made, costs more than most people's cars—and the absurdity of it hits me. All this wealth, power, success—it means nothing.
Less than nothing, actually. It's actively destroying the only thing I've wanted in years.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucking devastating.
I pull up my email, more out of habit than any real desire to work. A hundred and forty-seven unread messages. Deals waiting to close. Contracts needing review. Board meetings scheduled.
I close the email without reading a single message.
What's the point? I could close every deal on that list, could add another billion to my net worth, and it wouldn't change the fundamental problem.
Emma thinks accepting my help means losing herself.
The memory of our argument makes me want to put my fist through something. The way I immediately offered to fund Essence. The solution-oriented, problem-solving instinct that's served me so well in business but destroyed everything in the one moment that actually mattered.
I didn't ask what she needed. Didn't give her space to figure it out herself. Just saw a problem and threw money at it like that's the only tool in my arsenal.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The recessed lighting up there cost $10,000. Custom fixtures, imported from Denmark, installed by specialists.
My whole life feels completely meaningless right now.
The phone on my desk buzzes. Thomas, my assistant, with my morning schedule.
I ignore it.
Another buzz. My lawyer, about the Henderson contract.
Ignore.
A third buzz. Victoria.
That one I look at, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ache.
Victoria:I heard through the grapevine that you and Emma have parted ways. I'm sorry, Grant. I know you cared about her. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here.
The false sympathy makes my blood boil. She did this. Orchestrated the entire disaster with the precision of a military operation. The photograph sent to David. The whisper in Vance's ear that killed Emma's investment.
