“You think I wanted this to be a secret?” she asked. “You think I wanted to sit in silence while my body changed, while every day I wondered if you would even care?”
Grant’s jaw tightened. “You had seven months, Mara. Seven months to pick up a phone, to send a message that wasn’t filtered through lawyers.”
Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “And you had seven months to listen. To hear me when I said I couldn’t fight your board and your empire and your silence at the same time. You wanted control. I wanted honesty. Neither of us got what we wanted.”
The babies stirred faintly, one letting out a soft sigh, the other curling tighter against her chest. Grant’s eyes flicked to them, then back to Mara.
“You don’t get to hand me this like a verdict,” he said, voice low. “You don’t get to decide what kind of father I am before I’ve even—”
“Before you’ve even shown up?” Mara’s words cut him off. “Grant, I didn’t decide anything. Biology did. Time did. Choices did. You are their father whether you want the title or not. The only decision left is whether you’ll be present or another shadow they learn to live without.”
Grant felt the weight of the doorframe against his hand, grounding him. His mind raced through contracts, boardrooms, the skyscrapers that bore his name—all suddenly irrelevant against the fragile reality in front of him.
He opened his mouth, but no words came. For the first time in years, Grant Whitaker, master of negotiations and settlements, had no argument prepared.
Mara’s voice softened, though her eyes stayed sharp. “You don’t have to answer today. But you will have to answer. For them.”
The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rhythm of two newborn breaths.
