“Grant.”
His gaze flicked to my mother, then Eleanor. “I hoped we could speak privately.”
“No,” I said.
His jaw tightened.
He stepped farther into the room. “I understand you’ve been upset by how things unfolded.”
My mother made a sound under her breath, but Eleanor touched her arm.
“How things unfolded,” I repeated.
“I made difficult decisions under pressure.”
“You signed divorce papers while I was in critical condition.”
Grant glanced at Eleanor, as if annoyed that plain language had entered the room.
“Our marriage had been under strain for some time.”
That was true, technically, in the way a hairline crack is technically a fracture. We had grown distant during the pregnancy. Grant worked late. He took calls in other rooms. He became impatient when I asked about parenting plans, childcare, the future. But I had believed it was fear. Pressure. The panic of a man about to become a father to three children at once.
I had made excuses because love is very good at manufacturing them.
“You never asked if I would live,” I said.
His face stilled.
For the first time, he looked at me directly.
“I was told the doctors were doing everything they could.”
“And that was enough for you?”
He did not answer.
Eleanor crossed one leg over the other. “Mr. Holloway, why are you here?”
Grant reached into his coat and removed a folded document.
“I want to resolve this without unnecessary escalation.”
Eleanor accepted the document but did not open it immediately. “Meaning?”
“Claire and I need stability. The children need stability. A public dispute would harm everyone.”
I almost smiled.
There it was. Public. The Holloway family’s sacred terror.
“What are you offering?” Eleanor asked.
Grant looked at me. “A private settlement. Generous support. Medical expenses covered. Housing. Staff. A parenting structure that keeps things calm.”
“Calm for whom?” I asked.
“For the children.”
“For your company.”
His eyes cooled.
“That company funds hospitals, schools, and thousands of jobs.”
“And apparently attorneys who wait outside ICU doors.”
A faint flush rose along his cheekbones.
He looked away first.
It should have felt satisfying. It did not. Seeing him there, polished and distant, I felt grief more than anger. This was the man whose shirts I had folded. The man who knew I hated cilantro and loved old bookstores. The man who once drove three hours in a snowstorm because I had food poisoning and wanted soup from a particular place near my mother’s house.
Had that man been real?
Or had I loved the version of Grant he performed when life was easy?
“Did you love me?” I asked.
The question surprised everyone, including me.
Grant’s face shifted again, almost imperceptibly.
“Claire.”
“Just answer.”
His hand tightened around the back of the visitor chair. “I cared for you.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He stared at the floor.
