Page 60 of Her Filthy Cold Billionaire Boss

Outside, the rain had given way to sunshine. Every other car on the street was dusted with pollen and city grit. I drove in a silence so total it might have been a crime scene, windows up, the only sound the dull click of the engine and the tiny voice inmy head that said, “Don’t do it, Eden. Stay away from the painful thoughts.”

But I drove anyway. Because when you get a text from your grandmother, you listen. Even if it kills you.

Her house was the same as always white, black trim, doormat that read,OH NO NOT YOU AGAIN. I almost smiled. I almost didn’t want to puke.

I let myself in. The air was thick with cinnamon and orange peel, the carpet vacuumed in neat rows, the kitchen table already set for two. Gram stood at the counter, her hair silver and pulled tight into a bun, slicing into a still-steaming coffee cake with a surgeon’s focus.

“Ten minutes late,” she said without turning around. “That’s new. You usually show up early to steal the gooey corner.”

“You didn’t give me a time. And I almost stayed in bed,” I said.

She set the knife down and faced me, arms folded, eyebrow raised. “You look like hell.”

“Thanks,” I said. “You look like Martha Stewart if she murdered all her husbands for the insurance money.”

Gram grinned, satisfied. “That’s the spirit.”

She pointed me to the table, poured coffee, then sat. For a while, we just ate, the only sound the scrape of fork on plate and the gentle hum of the radiator. It was so normal I could almost forget that the last three days had been a slow-motion car crash of heartbreak and self-doubt.

I was halfway through my second piece when Gram finally put her fork down. “You need to let the past go and prepare for the future.”

I went cold, frozen in place.

Gram leaned in, voice gentle but unyielding. “You’re not a quitter, Eden. You never were.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but the front door clicked, and voices drifted in from the hallway. For a second, I thought I was hallucinating, hearing ghosts, but then the sound resolved into words, familiar and jagged.

“Just let her have five minutes before you jump in,” said my mother’s voice, soft as always but with a hint of fear.

“She’s my daughter, too,” said my father, lower, softer, as if that made it better.

I wanted to run. I wanted to evaporate into the walls. But Gram’s hand shot out and locked around my wrist, iron under paper skin.

“Stay,” she said.

I stayed.

They entered the kitchen side by side, awkward and tentative, the way people do when they’ve spent years perfecting avoidance. My mother wore a scarf I’d bought her for Christmas a decade ago. My father looked older, smaller, as if he’d been compressed by some invisible vice.

For a moment, no one spoke. Then my mother crossed to me and, in a move so unlike her it felt unreal, wrapped me in a hug.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I let it get so bad.”

My father joined, a clumsy three-person embrace, and for a second I just stood there, arms limp, unsure if I was supposed to hug back or push away.

Gram cleared her throat. “You’re crushing the cake, you know.”

We all laughed, a little. It felt fragile, but it was a start.

They pulled away, and my mother dabbed at her eyes. “We’ve been talking. A lot. We want to do better, Eden. We want to make things right.”

My father nodded, the words coming slow. “We’re not good at this. But we want to try.”

I wanted to believe them. I did. But the wound was too fresh. I couldn’t just stitch it shut and pretend it never bled.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” I said, voice shaking. “Not yet.”

“That’s okay,” said my mother. “But can you let us try?”