Page 85 of In Love With Mr. Wrong

Grayson is by the window. Not leaning, not pacing, just standing. He’s been like that for nearly ten minutes. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. The screen’s still lit. The message he got this morning still open. I’ve given him space. I’ve waited. But the silence is beginning to feel like a wall between us.

“Are you going to call?” I ask gently.

His jaw shifts. “I don’t know.”

I rise slowly, stretching against the weight of the day and the baby pressing into my spine. I cross the room barefoot, the rug soft beneath my feet, and stop behind him, resting a hand between his shoulder blades.

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

“I know.”

Silence again. Not hostile. Not closed. Just… weighted.

“I’m scared,” he finally says.

I blink. Grayson King doesn’t say that kind of thing often. And when he does, it never sounds like weakness. It sounds like truth. Stripped down and raw.

“I know you are,” I whisper. “But whatever this is, whoever he is, you deserve the truth. You deserve to choose how it shapes you.”

He doesn’t answer. So I step in front of him, forcing his eyes to meet mine.

“You are not a name. You are not a secret. You’re a man who built something incredible out of the unknown. But this?” I gesture to the phone. “This is your story, too.”

He exhales. Closes his eyes. And nods. The apartment is too quiet after he dials. He puts it on speaker at my request, and we both sit on the couch, cushions barely touching, like something sacred is about to rupture the air. The line rings once. Twice. Then a voice. Male. Calm. Older. With the kind of measured cadence that makes you think he’s spoken to crowds before.

“I was wondering when you’d reach out.”

Grayson swallows. “Who are you?”

There’s a pause. Then, “I was your mother’s mistake. And the reason she built an empire.”

The next half hour unfolds in fragments. The man doesn’t give a full name, not yet, but he confirms everything Eleanor danced around. A brief affair. An attempt to bury it. A child she raised with another man’s name because the truth didn’t fit the legacy she wanted.

“I watched you from a distance,” the man says. “Not out of shame. But because Eleanor made it clear, there was no room for me in your world.”

Grayson doesn’t respond. He just listens. Still. Tense.

“She’s always been good at closing doors,” I say finally, unable to hold back.

“She’s better at building new ones,” the man replies. “Locked from the inside.”

When the call ends, the silence is different. Not heavy. Just... quiet. Like a door has opened, and now we’re standing in front of something unknown.

***

The next morning, I wake before the sun. Grayson’s still asleep, arm thrown across my waist, face relaxed in a way I rarely see. I don’t move. Not yet. I just watch him breathe and let my fingers trace lazy circles against his forearm.

He’s doing the impossible. Facing a truth he didn’t ask for. And still, still, he holds me at night like I’m the only thing that steadies him.

I press a kiss to his temple and whisper, “We’re going to be okay.”

***

The OB-GYN office smells like lemon cleaner and lavender hand sanitizer. A weird mix, but not unpleasant. It’s busy this morning, mothers with toddlers clinging to their legs, a few swollen-bellied women flipping through parenting magazines with glazed-over eyes. A baby screams somewhere behind the closed exam room doors.

Grayson and I sit side by side on the cushioned bench along the window. The upholstery is salmon pink. Who chose salmon pink for a medical waiting room? I’m convinced it was a cruel joke. He taps his fingers on the armrest, glancing around, visibly unsure what to do with himself.

“You okay?” I murmur.

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