Chapter 12
Emma
I've been staring at the same beaker for twenty minutes, inhaling the earthy, grassy notes that should be grounding my base formula, but it’s just not right. Too sharp. Too green. Or maybe it's fine and my nose just isn’t working.
I set down the beaker and press my palms against my worktable, closing my eyes. Yesterday's disaster with Samantha keeps replaying in my head—her nasty words, the way she looked at me like I was something dirty her father had tracked in on his shoe.
My phone sits face-down next to my notebook, Grant's unanswered text from yesterday burning a hole through the screen. I love you. Three words I've wanted to hear, and when he finally says them, I can't bring myself to respond.
Because what if Samantha's right? What if I'm kidding myself about maintaining my independence? What if everyone looks at us and sees exactly what she sees—a transaction disguised as a relationship?
The nausea that's been my constant companion for weeks surges, and I grab the ginger tea I made earlier. It's cold now but I force it down anyway.
I need to work. Need to lose myself in the precision of perfumery, where everything makes sense and follows rules. Where I'm in control.
But I can't focus, and Grant's text keeps echoing in my head alongside Samantha's venom.
My phone buzzes. I flip it over, half hoping, half terrified it's Grant.
It's Poppy.
Poppy: You alive over there? Want company?
I should say yes. Should let my best friend come over and distract me, help me process yesterday's nightmare. But I can't face Poppy's well-meaning concern right now.
Me: Swamped with work. Rain check?
Poppy: Of course. Love you.
Me: Love you too.
I set the phone down and stare at my scattered materials. Bottles and beakers, notebooks filled with formulas, samples I need to send to potential investors by the end of the week. My entire future, distilled into glass containers and scent strips.
I grab my jacket and wallet. I need air. The cafe down the block has good coffee (even though I’m drinking decaf these days) and quiet corner booths, and maybe a change of scenery will help me think.
The April afternoon is cool and bright, the kind of spring day that makes New York feel almost friendly. I walk the three blocks to the cafe with my hands shoved in my pockets, grateful for the anonymity of the crowded sidewalk.
The cafe is my favorite kind of busy—full enough that the ambient noise creates privacy, but not so packed that I can't find a table. I order a decaf latte and claim a corner spot near the window, pulling out my notebook to review some notes.
Maybe now I can see what's wrong with the base notes and fix the balance that's been eluding me.
I lose myself in calculations, in the precise measurements that govern scent composition. Top notes need to be bright, volatile—bergamot and lemon verbena. Heart notes should add complexity—iris and jasmine. Base notes ground everything, give it staying power. Vetiver, sandalwood, a touch of amber.
But something's still off. The formula that looked perfect on paper keeps falling flat when I actually blend it.
I'm so focused on my notes that I don't notice a woman approaching until she's standing right beside my table.
"Emma?"
I look up.
It’s Victoria fucking Cross.
Her blonde hair is styled in an elegant bob and she's wearing a Burberry camel trench coat. Everything about her screams wealth and taste and the kind of polish I've never aspired to.
Her smile is brilliant, showing perfect white teeth. "I thought that was you! What a wonderful coincidence."
"Victoria—" I start, and she's already pulling out the chair across from me, settling in like we're long lost friends.
The coffee I just sipped turns to acid in my stomach.
"I—" My brain scrambles for what to say. "It’s so nice to see you."
"I hope you don't mind me joining you." She doesn't wait for an answer, just signals the barista with the kind of casual authority that says she's used to being obeyed.
"I saw you through the window and thought, 'Victoria, you simply must say hello.
'" Her eyes sweep over me, assessing. "It’s been such a long time. "
“It has.” My brain is totally short circuiting right now. How can this possibly be happening again? And certainly she knows about me and Grant… I can’t imagine Samantha didn’t tell her.
“Samantha mentioned she ran into you and Grant yesterday.”
I nod. Okay, here it comes.
Victoria's still smiling. The barista appears with her cappuccino, and she accepts it with a gracious nod. "Sounds like Grant is quite taken with you, yes?"
I'm not sure if that's a question or a statement. "We're... together. Yes."
"How marvelous." She takes a delicate sip of her cappuccino. "Young love. It's so refreshing, isn't it? That intensity. That mystery."
Young love. The words land like a slap reminding me—reminding both of us—that I'm young. Too young for her ex-husband.
"I wouldn't call it young love," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "We're both adults. And I’m pregnant with twins."
"Yes, yes, I heard." Her smile never wavers. "And I didn't mean to imply that you’re not an adult. It's just—well, there's something particularly fierce about passion when you're in your twenties, isn't there? Before life teaches you to be more... measured."
Before life teaches you. Like I'm a child who hasn't learned any better yet.
My hands tighten around my coffee cup. "I'm twenty-four. And I’ve had plenty of life lessons."
"Oh, I’m sure." She waves a dismissive hand, rings glinting in the afternoon light. "And I hear you're building some sort of business, aren't you? Perfume?"
"Yes. Natural, sustainably sourced fragrances."
"How lovely." The way she says it makes it sound like a charming hobby.
"Grant always did appreciate ambition. When I met him, he was a nobody.
A kid from Queens with big dreams and no money.
" Her expression turns nostalgic. "We built his empire together, you know.
Twenty years of partnership. I was there for every acquisition, every deal, every success. "
Twenty years. The number hangs between us, a lifetime compared to my eight weeks.
"That must have been rewarding," I manage.
"Oh, it was. Is." She corrects herself deliberately.
"Being part of something that significant—helping shape it from the ground up—there's nothing quite like it.
We're not together romantically anymore, but Grant and I, we'll always be connected.
We share a daughter, after all. A history. You can't erase twenty years."
Her message is crystal clear. You're temporary–even if you are pregnant with his babies. I'm permanent.
I should leave. Should make an excuse and get out of here before she draws more blood. But I'm frozen, watching her sip her cappuccino with that perfect smile.
"Samantha mentioned your conversation yesterday was… interesting." Victoria's tone is conversational, but her eyes are sharp.
Interesting. That's one way to describe it.
"It was a difficult conversation," I say carefully.
"Of course it was. Poor thing, she's having such a hard time with the divorce still.
" Victoria sighs, all maternal concern. "And now to find out her father is involved with someone so—well, so different from what she's used to. And she’s going to have half-siblings soon. It's a lot for her to process."
Different. Another careful word choice. Different meaning younger, less sophisticated, less worthy.
"I understand it's an adjustment," I say.
"You're very gracious." Victoria's smile sharpens. "I'm sure it can't be easy, stepping into a family with such deep roots. Grant and I, we've known each other since we were your age.”
My throat feels tight and I can’t think of anything to say.
"And then there's the matter of his... patterns." She whispers the word, like she's sharing a secret. "Grant is wonderful, truly. But he does have a tendency to be—how shall I put this—enthusiastic about new ventures. New interests." Her eyes meet mine. "New people."
The implication is a knife between my ribs; I'm not special, just his latest interest.
"But the thing about Grant," Victoria continues, stirring her cappuccino with a tiny spoon, "is that when the initial excitement fades, he always comes back to what's familiar.
What's comfortable. What's real." She gestures between us.
"Twenty years of history doesn't just disappear because of a few exciting weeks. "
A few exciting weeks. That's all she sees—a temporary distraction Grant will tire of. And when he does, he’ll leave me and the babies behind.
"Grant and I aren't—" I start, but she interrupts, gentle and firm.
"I know, dear. You're not trying to replace me.
I know you're a lovely girl with perfectly good intentions. After all, I’ve known you since you were a child.
" She takes another sip of her cappuccino.
"But you should know what you're getting into.
The scrutiny, the pressure, the constant comparisons.
People will always wonder if you're with him for the right reasons.
They'll whisper. Question your motives." Her eyes drop to my sweater—my Target sweater that suddenly feels like a neon sign announcing my inadequacy.
"It takes tremendous strength to stand beside someone like Grant.
To be his equal, not just his... companion. "
The word "companion" drips with condescension. Not partner. Not girlfriend. Companion. Like I'm a sex worker.
I should defend myself. Should tell her that Grant and I are building something real, that what we have is about more than his money or status. But my voice won't work. I'm trapped in her spotlight, every insecurity I've ever had about this relationship bubbling to the surface.