Chapter 3 - Behind Closed Doors
The private VIP parlor on the third floor of St. Anselm’s Cathedral was a sanctuary of dark wood paneling, velvet armchairs, and amber light filtering through stained-glass windows depicting biblical scenes of restoration and grace.
Yet the atmosphere inside the room felt more like an interrogation chamber.
Clare had thoughtfully arranged for a bassinet and a plush sofa before gently closing the door, leaving only Daniel, Samara, Grayson, and the two sleeping infants in the quiet room.
Samara gently laid the baby boy down in the bassinet, patting his back until his breathing evened out, then cradled the little girl against her shoulder as she sat stiffly on the edge of the velvet sofa.
Grayson stood near the ornate stone fireplace, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets to hide the way his fingers were trembling. He stared at Samara as if trying to memorize a face he had loved, lost, and now resented all at once.
“Well,” Grayson said, breaking the suffocating silence. His voice was cold, sharp as a scalpel. “You have an audience. Start talking.”
Samara looked up, her expression hardening in response to his tone. The vulnerability she had shown in the grand hall was gone, replaced by the resilient, unyielding spirit that had made him fall in love with her in the first place.
“Stop acting like a prosecutor, Grayson,” she said evenly. “You have no right to interrogate me.”
“No right?” Grayson took two sharp steps forward, towering over her. “You kept my children from me for six months! You vanished into thin air, built an entire life behind my back, and you’re telling me I have no right to know why?”
“Your children?” Samara fired back, her voice rising, though she kept it controlled so as not to wake the babies. “You wouldn’t even let me finish a sentence about my future career ambitions the night I walked out! Do you honestly think I would have stayed around long enough to let you dictate how I raised your heirs?”
Daniel cleared his throat nervously from the corner of the room, stepping forward. “Hey... maybe I should step outside—”
“No, stay,” Samara said, her eyes never leaving Grayson’s face. “Let Daniel hear it. Let everyone hear how the great Grayson Holt handles anything he can’t control with a wire transfer or a nondisclosure agreement.”
Grayson’s jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his cheek. He remembered that rainy night vividly. It was the night he had offered her a promotion, a larger apartment, and a strict, structured timeline for their engagement—treating her life like a corporate merger that needed optimization. He had looked at her creative soul, her chaotic brilliance, her raw, unfiltered warmth, and tried to package it into a neat, acceptable asset for a man of his standing.
When she refused his gilded cage, he had let his pride win. He had told her, “If you walk out that door tonight, Samara, don’t expect me to be waiting when you realize the real world doesn't care about your ideals.”
She had walked out into the rain. And he had never looked back. Or rather, he had looked back every single day, wrapped in the cold armor of his own making.
“You didn’t know you were pregnant when you left,” Grayson stated, his voice dropping an octave, realizing the timeline.
“No,” Samara whispered, looking down at the little girl sleeping peacefully against her chest. “I found out a month later. By then, your assistant had already returned my keys, my bank accounts had been unlinked from yours as part of your standard breakup protocol, and your publicist had issued a statement that you were single and focusing on the Mercer acquisition.”
The words hit Grayson like physical blows. Every administrative barrier he had automatically erected to protect his heart had functioned as a brick wall keeping his own flesh and blood away from him.
“You could have called,” Grayson said, his voice cracking slightly—a micro-fracture in his facade that he immediately tried to patch over with anger. “You could have sent a message. You knew my number.”
“And what would you have done, Grayson?” Samara asked, her brown eyes flashing with unshed tears of lingering trauma. “Would you have bought me a luxury townhouse in Tribeca? Would you have hired a battery of pediatric nurses and a legal team to draft custody agreements before the babies were even born? You don't know how to be a father, because you don't even know how to be a partner. You only know how to manage people.”
The silence that followed was heavier than lead.
Daniel looked between them, recognizing the tragic truth in both of their arguments. He slowly turned toward the door. “I’m going to check on Clare. I’ll make sure no one disturbs you two.”
When the door clicked shut, the room shrank down to just the two of them—and the two small lives sleeping between their fractured history.
Grayson slowly sank down onto the coffee table opposite the sofa, resting his elbows on his knees, staring at his daughter’s tiny face. The anger was gone, burned away by the devastating realization of his own culpability.
“What are their names?” he asked quietly, his voice devoid of all menace.
Samara looked down at the baby girl in her arms, her expression softening into something infinitely tender.
“Leo,” she murmured, glancing toward the bassinet. “And Maya.”
Grayson closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. Leo and Maya. His son. His daughter.
“Can I...?” He gestured awkwardly toward Maya, his large, capable hands hovering in the air like he wasn't sure if he was allowed to touch them. “Can I hold her?”
May you like
Samara hesitated. She studied his face—the raw shock, the profound realization, and the quiet, desperate plea hidden behind his gray eyes. Slowly, she shifted the baby forward.
Grayson reached out, his arms trembling slightly as he scooped his daughter into his chest.
