Chapter 4 - The Touch of Blood
Maya weighed almost nothing.
Holding her felt like holding a fragile star fallen from the night sky. Grayson froze, terrified that if he breathed too hard, she would break, or vanish, or turn out to be a magnificent illusion conjured by his desperate conscience.
Then Maya shifted. Her tiny hand, no bigger than a matchbox, reached up blindly against the lapel of his expensive bespoke suit, her miniature fingers wrapping securely around the silk thread of his lapel.
A sharp, unfamiliar ache pierced straight through the center of Grayson’s chest.
He had held corporate portfolios worth billions. He had signed acquisitions that redirected global markets. He had wielded power that made seasoned executives sweat across mahogany tables.
None of it—none of the wealth, the prestige, or the power—mattered. In this dim, amber-lit room, holding a six-month-old infant who smelled of baby lotion and sweet milk, Grayson Holt felt completely, utterly humbled.
“She has your mother’s nose,” Samara whispered softly, watching him from the sofa.
Grayson looked down, his vision blurring slightly. He swallowed hard, blinking back the hot sting behind his eyelids. “How did you do it?” he asked, his voice rough. “Six months. By yourself. No support, no security net... why didn't you reach out to anyone? Not even Clare?”
“I didn't want charity, Grayson,” Samara replied, her tone firm, though the defensiveness had faded into exhaustion. “And I didn't want pity. When I left you, I had to find out if I could survive on my own two feet. I needed to know that I was enough—not just as an appendage to your success, but as a person, as an artist, as a woman.”
“You were never an appendage,” Grayson said, his voice heavy with self-reproach. “You were the only real thing in my life. I just... I didn't know how to love anything without trying to own it.”
Samara looked at him, surprised by the raw honesty of the admission. It was an apology she had waited two years to hear—an apology she had stopped expecting ever to receive.
“You’re holding her very well,” Samara noted quietly.
“I’m terrified I’m going to drop her,” Grayson confessed, a rare, self-deprecating smile touching the corners of his mouth.
Samara let out a small, breathless laugh—a sound that sent a warm, electric current rushing through Grayson’s veins. It was the laugh he had missed every single day since she walked out.
From the bassinet, Leo stirred, letting out a soft, high-pitched squeak that indicated he was waking up.
Without thinking, Grayson stood up, carrying Maya with infinite care, and walked over to the bassinet. He peered down at his son. Leo rubbed his tiny fists against his eyes, yawned with jaw-dropping dramatic flair, and then opened his slate-gray eyes—eyes that mirrored Grayson’s own reflection back at him with startling clarity.
“He’s waking up,” Grayson said, sounding like a man reporting major news from a war zone.
“He’s probably hungry,” Samara said, standing up from the sofa. She stepped beside Grayson, her shoulder brushing against his arm. The familiar warmth of her body sent a shockwave through his nervous system. “Here, let me take Maya. You can pick him up if you want.”
Grayson transferred his daughter back to her mother with practiced, agonizing slowness, then reached down and scooped up his son.
Leo felt heavier, solid and warm against his chest. The baby stared up at Grayson with solemn, unblinking curiosity, as if evaluating whether this tall, tailored stranger was worthy of his trust.
“Hello, Leo,” Grayson whispered, his thumb gently stroking the baby’s soft cheek. “I’m your dad.”
For the first time in his life, the word dad didn't sound like a title or an obligation. It sounded like a destiny.
Samara watched them, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. She had spent six months dreading this exact moment, terrified that Grayson would try to use his immense wealth and legal dominance to take her children away, or worse, that he wouldn't care at all.
Instead, she saw a man who had been cracked open by grace.
“What happens now, Samara?” Grayson asked, looking across the bassinet at her. “You didn't just show up at a wedding by accident. You knew I’d be here.”
Samara took a deep breath, her expression turning serious. “Clare invited me weeks ago. She told me you were coming, too. I... I knew I couldn't keep hiding them from you, Grayson. It wasn't fair to Leo and Maya, and honestly, it wasn't fair to you.”
“You’re damn right it wasn't,” Grayson said, though there was no heat in his words now—only quiet resolve. He shifted Leo gently against his shoulder. “We’re leaving together.”
“Grayson, my apartment is in Brooklyn—im my car—”
“Your car is parked in a cathedral lot. My driver will handle it,” Grayson interrupted, his tone shifting effortlessly back into the decisive commander of capital, but with a entirely new objective. “You and the twins are moving into my Midtown penthouse tonight. Permanently.”
Samara’s eyes flashed with immediate resistance. “Hold on! I didn't say anything about moving in with you! We need to talk, we need boundaries—”
“We can talk for the next fifty years,” Grayson said, stepping closer to her, his gray eyes locking onto hers with absolute, unyielding conviction. “In my home. Where I can protect you, provide for you, and spend every waking second making up for every single day I missed of my children’s lives.”
Before Samara could formulate a counterargument, the heavy mahogany door of the parlor clicked open.
Daniel poked his head in, looking apologetic. “Gray, Samara... I hate to interrupt family bonding, but your security detail downstairs just called my phone. They said there’s a problem.”
May you like
Grayson’s expression instantly hardened, the protective predator waking up beneath the father’s skin. “What kind of problem?”
“A paparazzi swarm outside the front cathedral steps,” Daniel said grimly. “And worse... someone tipped off the financial press. They know you have twins with you.”
