Chapter 7
I searched his gray-blue eyes. The coldness was gone. The fortress was gone. There was only the boy who had grown up in an empire made of glass, begging for a warm hearth.
"What about Manhattan?" I whispered. "The penthouse? The board?"
"I don't care about the penthouse," Grant said without hesitation. "I can run the company from a desk in your father's library. I can take the train. I will step down as CEO and take chairman if that’s what it takes to be home for dinner every single night." He cupped my cheek, his thumb catching a falling tear. "I don't want an annulment, Nora. I want a marriage. A real one. For the rest of my life."
The medicine in my veins had eased the nausea, but the warmth spreading through my chest was something no doctor could prescribe. For sixteen weeks, I had carried the weight of the world alone in the dark, preparing to raise two children in hiding, believing their father was incapable of love.
Now, he was kneeling in the ruins of the contract that had kept us apart, offering me everything he was.
"Grant," I whispered, sliding my hand from his hair down to his collar, pulling him closer.
"Yes?"
"You're going to have to learn how to change diapers. Two of them at a time."
A breathtaking, radiant smile broke across his face—the first genuine smile I had ever seen on Grant Hale in the two years I had known him. He leaned in and kissed me, soft and reverent at first, then deep and fierce, sealing a vow far truer than any ceremony we had shared before strangers.
Seven Months Later
May arrived along the Hudson River with an explosion of dogwood blossoms and wild lilac.
The nursery on the second floor of Hawthorne House was flooded with pale morning light. Through the tall sash windows, you could see the sun glinting off the water and the lush green hills rolling toward the horizon.
In the center of the room sat two white oak cribs.
In one slept Leo, born with a shock of thick, dark hair and his father’s stubborn jawline. In the other slept Clara, who had already inherited my hazel eyes and an uncanny ability to wake up the instant her brother drifted off.
The door creaked open.
Grant walked in barefoot, wearing faded linen pants and a soft navy sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He held two freshly warmed bottles in one hand and looked delightfully disheveled, a far cry from the immaculate billionaire who had walked into the library seven months ago.