Mom, Don't Cry! Here comes a new Daddy! novel Chapter 124

Chapter 112

(Ethan’s POV)

My body goes ridge at the comment.

“Gran.”

“I know you don’t want to hear it, but it’s the truth. You should know that by now.”

Rosalie shifts beside Gran. “We’re not saying she’s wrong for you. We just want to make sure she’s right.”

I look at my sister. Rosalie has always been good at playing peacemaker. At smoothing over conflicts before they explode. But there’s something in her eyes I can’t quite read.

“You’ll meet her tomorrow,” I tell them both. “You can form your own opinions then.”

“I already have opinions,” Gran says. “Tomorrow will simply confirm them.”

“Or change them.”

“Perhaps.”

But her tone says she doesn’t believe that for a second.

The rest of the drive is silent. Gran looks out the window. Rosalie scrolls through her phone. I watch the city go by and try not to think about how badly this could go.

When we reach my penthouse, Gran sweeps in like she owns the place.

She does own the place. Technically. The building is part of the Hale portfolio.

She walks through the living room, eyes taking in every detail. She pauses at the kitchen counter where Jake left one of his drawings yesterday. A dinosaur family. Three of them. Labels underneath in his careful handwriting: Mom, Jake, New Dad.

Gran picks it up.

“The child draws,” she observes.

“Jake is very talented. He has over a million followers on social media.”

“Social media.” She sets the drawing down like it’s contaminated. “How modern.”

Rosalie appears at her shoulder, looking at the drawing with more genuine interest.

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“This is good,” she says. “Really good. How old did you say he was?”

“Six.”

“Six.” She traces the drawing with one finger. “That’s impressive for a six year old.”

Gran walks away from the counter, moving to the windows that overlook the city. She stands there with her hands clasped behind her back, the posture of a general surveying a battlefield.

“What time are they coming tomorrow?” she asks without turning around.

“Six o’clock. For dinner.”

“And you’re certain about this? About her? About taking on the responsibility of a child that isn’t yours?”

I walk over to stand beside her at the window. Out there, the city is full of people living their lives. Going to work. Coming home. Building families.

Just like I’m trying to do.

“I’ve never been more certain of anything,” I tell her.

Gran turns to look at me. Really look at me. The way she used to when I was young and she was trying to figure out if I was telling the truth or just saying what I thought she wanted to hear.

“Your mother,” she says quietly, “would have wanted you to marry for love. She believed in that. Believed it could conquer anything.”

“But you don’t.”

“I believe love is important. But it’s not sufficient. Marriage is a partnership. A merger. It requires compatible goals, compatible values, compatible-”

“I know what marriage requires, Grandmother. I’m thirty–two years old. I run a billion–dollar company. I think I can handle choosing my own wife.”

“Can you? Because the last woman you chose-”

“Giselle was a mistake. We both know that.”

“And what if this one is too?”

The question sits between us like a wall.

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“She’s not,” I say.

“You can’t know that.”

“I can. I do.”

Gran studies me for another moment. Then she sighs–not a sound of defeat, but of resignation.

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“Very well. Tomorrow I’ll meet this Sabrina Moore and her son. I’ll form my own assessment.”

“That’s all I’m asking.”

“But Ethan.” She reaches out and puts one hand on my arm. Her grip is surprisingly strong for someone her age. “I need you to prepare yourself for the possibility that my assessment won’t be favorable.”

“And if it’s not?”

“Then we’ll have a very different conversation.”

She releases my arm and walks toward the guest room, Rosalie trailing behind her.

I stand at the window alone, looking out at the city, and wonder what I’m going to do if tomorrow goes as badly as I think it might.

Sabrina and Jake are my life.

That is fact.

I can’t live without them.

But Gran is also the woman who raised me. I know where her concern is coming from. And her opinion of Sabrina…

It holds more weight for me than Stephen Hale’s opinion ever did.

My phone buzzes. A text from Sabrina.

How did it go?

I stare at the message for a long time.

Then I type back: She’s here.

Three dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.

I’m scared.

<Chapter 112

I type: Me too.

But I delete it before I send it.

Instead: It’s going to be fine. I promise.

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