Chapter 4
Emma
Idrop my bag by the door and stand there for a moment, taking in the controlled chaos of my apartment/laboratory.
The workbench against the far wall is covered in amber bottles of varying sizes, each one carefully labeled in my cramped handwriting.
Rose absolute from Bulgaria. Neroli from Tunisia.
Frankincense from Somalia. Raw materials I've saved for months to afford.
The distillation equipment sits on the shelf above—modest compared to what Daniela has in Florence, but functional. Mine. Bought with money I earned myself, mixing custom scents for boutiques and private clients who found me through Instagram.
My laptop is open on the desk in the corner, the screen dark.
Behind it, pages torn from my notebook are taped to the wall—formulas, ingredient lists, brand concepts.
The business plan for Essence is there too, printed and marked up in three colors of ink.
Every detail mapped out, every contingency planned for.
Except this one.
I press my palm against my stomach beneath my oversized sweater. There's nothing to feel yet. No sign that everything is about to change.
A baby.
I'm going to have a baby.
The thought sends a fresh wave of nausea through me. Alight, girl, just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth.
It doesn't help.
My shift today was a total shit show and I barely had time to even use the bathroom. I can’t wait for the day I can quit. Oliver’s is a cute little diner and it’s not far from here, but waiting tables is definitely not my jam.
I need to get my mind off all of this. Work. I can work.
I need to finalize the formula for the signature scent I'm launching Essence with—something clean and complex. Something that will prove to investors that natural fragrances can be just as sophisticated as their synthetic counterparts.
I pull out my journal and flip to the page where I've been documenting the iterations.
Version twelve is close. The base notes are perfect—a blend of vetiver and cedar that's earthy without being heavy.
The heart is good too—lavender and geranium, classic but elevated.
It's the top notes that need work. Something bright to cut through the richness, something unexpected.
Bergamot, maybe. Or yuzu.
My hands move on autopilot, measuring out drops into a clean beaker. Three drops of bergamot. One grapefruit. A half-drop of pink pepper for complexity. I swirl the mixture, bring it to my nose.
It's wrong. Too sharp, the citrus overpowering everything else.
I dump it down the sink and start again.
This time I try yuzu with a touch of neroli. Better, but still not right. The balance is off.
I dump it. Start over.
By the fifth attempt, my hands are shaking so badly I nearly knock over the bottle of yuzu. I catch it at the last second, my heart hammering.
I can't do this.
I can't focus, can't think, can't make my brain cooperate long enough to mix a simple formula I could probably do in my sleep under normal circumstances.
But these aren't normal circumstances.
I sink onto the stool by the workbench and bury my face in my hands, the scent of bergamot clinging to my fingers.
How am I supposed to launch a company like this? How am I supposed to pitch investors and secure funding and build a brand when I can barely measure out essential oils without my hands shaking?
What happens when I'm six months pregnant and can't stand for long periods? When I'm too exhausted to work sixteen-hour days? When the baby comes and I'm running on no sleep, covered in spit-up, with no time for anything except keeping a tiny human alive?
The business plan mocks me from the wall.
I stand and cross to it, reading through the timeline I'd mapped out so carefully.
Finalize signature scent by end of month.
Launch website and social media campaign in six weeks.
Pitch investors in three months. Start small-batch production by summer. Official launch by fall.
It's ambitious but doable. I've been working toward this for a year, laying the groundwork, building relationships, creating buzz. Everything is perfectly timed.
Except now there's a baby coming.
In seven and a half months, if my shaky math is right.
Right in the middle of my launch window.
I'll be showing by the time I'm pitching investors. Visibly, undeniably pregnant.
They're going to take one look at me and write me off. A twenty-four-year-old single mother trying to launch a luxury fragrance brand? Too risky. Too unstable. Too likely to fail when reality sets in and she realizes she can't do it all.
And they'll probably be right.
Fuck…
I could do this if I wasn't alone. If I had help. Resources. Someone to handle the business side while I focus on the creative work. Someone to pick up the slack when I'm too exhausted or too pregnant to function.
Someone like Grant.
The thought lands hard.
What if he offered to fund the entire operation? Get me a proper lab space, hire a team, connect me with the best suppliers and distributors, make sure I had everything I needed.
What if all I had to do was ask?
All I'd have to do is tell him about the baby.
My throat tightens. I can see it so clearly, the way it would play out.
I'd tell him I'm pregnant, and after the initial shock, he'd go into problem-solving mode. Because that's what men like Grant do—they identify problems and fix them.
He'd offer support, financial and otherwise. He'd probably want to get me a bigger apartment, something suitable for a baby. Maybe set up a trust fund. Definitely insist on the best prenatal care money can buy.
And I'd say yes. Because I'd be tired and scared and desperate, and he'd make it all sound so reasonable. So sensible.
Just like my father made it sound reasonable when he convinced my mother to give up her art studio because they needed the space for his home office.
When he suggested she didn't need to work since he made plenty of money.
When he slowly took charge of every decision until she didn't make any of her own anymore.
She probably didn't even notice it happening. Probably thought she was lucky to be married to a man who wanted to take care of her.
Now she's a ghost in her own life. Perfectly dressed, perfectly agreeable, perfectly miserable.
I press my palms against the workbench, the sharp edge digging into my skin.
I can't do that. I can't become that.
But I also can't do this alone.
The indecision sits in my chest like a lead balloon. I need help. I can't accept help. I need Grant. I can't tell Grant. I want this baby. I'm terrified of this baby.
I don't know which way is up anymore.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out.
Poppy: How are you feeling today?
Poppy: Did you get any sleep?
Poppy: I'm worried about you.
I stare at the messages, trying to figure out how to answer. How am I feeling? Terrified. Overwhelmed. Like I'm watching my entire future crumble in real-time.
Me: I'm working to take my mind off of it.
Poppy: And how's that going?
I look at the sink full of failed formulas, at my hands that won't stop shaking, at the business plan on the wall with its now-impossible timeline.
Me: Not great.
Poppy: Do you want me to come over?
I do. I desperately do. But Poppy can't fix this. Her presence, her support, her unwavering belief in me—none of it changes the fundamental problem.
I'm pregnant, and I don't know how to be pregnant and still be me.
Me: I'm okay. Just need to think.
Poppy: Okay. But I'm here if you need me. Anytime. I mean it.
I set the phone down and turn back to the workbench. The bottles of essential oil blur in my vision as tears well up in my eyes.
I swipe at my eyes angrily. This is ridiculous. I'm not the kind of person who falls apart like this. I'm determined. Strong. Capable.
I'm not helpless.
But I feel helpless right now—completely and utterly powerless.
The baby is going to change everything. Make everything harder. Make me dependent on someone else—on Grant—whether I want to be or not.
Unless I don't tell him.
What if I just... don't say anything? What if I keep the pregnancy to myself, have the baby, figure it out on my own?
Grant is busy with his properties and his businesses. He lives in a completely different world than I do. Our paths don't naturally cross. If I don't reach out, I could probably go months—maybe even the entire pregnancy—without seeing him.
After the baby comes, I could say it's someone else's. Some guy I met after Florence. Grant would never have to know.
The relief that floods through me at the thought is immediate and intense.
No messy conversations. No explanations. No watching him try to fix everything while I slowly lose myself.
But even as I'm thinking it, I know it's wrong.
The baby is Grant's. He has a right to know. And keeping this secret would be exactly the kind of thing my father would do—controlling information, manipulating situations, making decisions for other people without their input.
I'd be no better than him.
My phone buzzes again, and I grab it out of my pocket.
But it's not Poppy this time.
Grant: I can't stop thinking about you.
My heart stops. Then starts again, twice as fast.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen.
This is the first time I’ve heard from him since I walked out of his hotel room in Florence.
Another text comes through.
Grant: I know you said Florence was a mistake. I'm trying to respect that. But I need you to know that it didn't feel like a mistake to me.
Grant: It was the best thing that’s happened to me in years.
Oh God.
I should ignore this. Should delete the messages and block his number and pretend I never saw them. It would be so much easier.
But my fingers are already moving, typing out a response before my brain can stop them.
Me: Grant
I don't know what else to say.
The three dots appear immediately.
Grant: Can I call you?
Me: I'm working right now.
Grant: Later then?
I close my eyes. This is it. The moment where I either pull him into this mess or cut him out completely.
I should cut him out. I know I should.
Me: Maybe. I don't know. I need to think.
Grant: About us?
About everything. About the baby growing inside me. About whether I tell you or keep this a secret. About whether I can build my business and raise a child and maintain my independence all at once. About whether accepting your help would destroy me or save me.
Me: About a lot of things.
The three dots appear and disappear several times. Finally, a message comes through.
Grant: Okay. I'll give you space to think. But when you're ready to talk, I'm here. Whatever you need to say, whatever you're dealing with, I'm here.
The tears come hard now, hot and fast. Because of course he'd say that. Of course he'd be kind and patient and exactly what I need him to be.
Which makes this so much worse.
I set the phone down and press my hands against my eyes, trying to stop the tears. It doesn't work though.
How did everything get so complicated so fast? Not long ago, I was on a plane to Florence, full of hope and ambition and the certainty that I was building exactly the life I wanted. Now I'm pregnant and I can't even mix a simple fragrance formula without falling apart.
First things first, though. I need to book an appointment with my gynecologist. I need to make sure I’m taking care of myself and this baby.
I grab my phone again and pull up my doctor's office website.
My doctor recently retired and recommended I see Dr. Byers going forward. The earliest appointment available for Dr. Byers is in three weeks.
I book it.
My finger hovers over the "confirm" button for a long moment. Once I click this, it becomes real. Official. The beginning of whatever comes next.
I click it.
The confirmation email arrives instantly, and I stare at it until the words blur.
Appointment confirmed for Thursday, May 4th at 10:00 a.m. with Dr. Shannon Byers.
Three weeks. In three weeks, I'll know for absolute certain. I'll have information. Options. A path forward, maybe.
Until then, I'm trapped in this horrible limbo, unable to work, unable to think, unable to do anything except sit in my studio and watch my dreams slip through my fingers.
I look at the business plan on the wall again. At all those careful notes and timelines and projections. At the evidence of how hard I've worked, how much I've sacrificed, how desperately I've fought to build something that's mine.
The despair that washes over me is so complete, so overwhelming, that I can't even cry anymore.
I just sink into my chair and stare at the wall.
And try to imagine a future where I don't lose everything.