Chapter 20
Emma
I've been awake for an hour, staring at the ceiling, listening to Grant breathe beside me. He's still asleep, one arm draped across my waist.
It's been two days since my father walked out of my apartment and out of my life.
Forty-eight hours of existing in a fog where nothing feels quite real.
I've cried until my eyes burned, slept fitfully, let Grant hold me while I fell apart over and over again.
He's been incredible—bringing me food, sitting on the couch with me and rubbing my feet, just being present without trying to fix anything.
I slide out from under Grant's arm carefully, not wanting to wake him.
I pad into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror is a disaster—hair tangled, puffy face, dark circles stamped under my eyes like bruises. I look exactly how I feel.
Wrecked.
I splash cold water on my face, trying to shock myself into some semblance of normalcy. It doesn't work.
"Emma?"
Grant's voice, rough with sleep, comes from the bedroom.
"I'm here." I dry my face and emerge to find him sitting up, his hair disheveled, concern etched across his features.
His eyes sweep over me, assessing. "Did you sleep at all?"
"Some." I slept maybe three hours total, in fragmented chunks interrupted by dreams of my father's face. "I'm going to my place to get some work done."
The words surprise me as much as they surprise him. I hadn't consciously decided this until right now, but suddenly it feels urgent.
"Are you sure that's a good idea?" Grant swings his legs out of bed, already moving into caretaker mode. "You could use another day to rest. To process—"
"I've processed." I gently cut him off. "Grant, I can't just... sit here anymore. I need to do something. Get back to feeling like I'm still—"
Still myself.
He studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Okay. Let me make you breakfast first."
"You don't have to—"
"Emma." His voice is firm but kind. "You need to eat."
I don't have the energy to argue.
I walk into my apartment, flipping on the lights. Images of my dad, red-faced and yelling at us, immediately flood my mind.
The thought makes me want to vomit, and I have to press my palm against my sternum to keep the emotion from spilling out.
I push that all aside. I need to check in on things, make sure I haven't missed anything critical to the business while I've been drowning in personal catastrophe.
I sink into my desk chair—the worn leather one I found at a flea market. My laptop sits closed on the desk, exactly where I left it.
Deep breath. I can do this. Just check email, respond to any urgent supplier questions, maybe review the latest batch results.
The laptop takes forever to wake up, the screen glowing to life with agonizing slowness. My email loads, the little number in the corner indicating I have forty-three unread messages.
Most are probably junk. Supplier newsletters, promotional offers, automated notifications. But I scan the sender names anyway, looking for anything important.
Then I see it.
Vance Capital Partners
My heart stops. Actually stops for a beat before slamming back to life with bruising force.
The subject line reads: Re: Essence Investment Proposal
I take a deep breath as I click it open. This is it. The response I've been waiting for. Vance said he'd have an answer early this week, and here it is, and maybe—
Maybe I can still salvage one part of my life from the wreckage.
The email opens, and I drink in the words.
Dear Ms. Sullivan,
Thank you for taking the time to meet with our team regarding investment opportunities for Essence. We were impressed by your presentation and your clear passion for the sustainable fragrance market.
Good. That's good. Impressed. Passion. These are positive words.
My eyes skip ahead, looking for the offer amount, the terms, next steps.
However, after careful consideration of our current portfolio and strategic priorities, we have decided to pursue other investment opportunities at this time.
The words don't make sense at first. I read them again.
...decided to pursue other investment opportunities...
No.
We wish you the best of luck with Essence and your future endeavors.
Sincerely,
Lawrence Vance
Managing Partner, Vance Capital Partners
This is a rejection.
A form letter rejection.
After a meeting that went perfectly. After Vance said he was "very impressed".
Victoria.
The thought crashes into me with the force of a train. Grant told me about seeing her with Vance at his luncheon. He tried not to sound too worried about it, but I could tell he was trying to hide his concern, so I wouldn’t freak out.
Victoria, who deliberately sought me out at that café to undermine my confidence. Who had us followed and photographed. Who sent that picture to my father. Who has been systematically dismantling every aspect of Grant's happiness bit by bit.
Victoria, who was apparently sleeping with Lawrence Vance. Or at least friendly enough to whisper in his ear. To influence his decisions.
To kill my investment deal.
She did this.
My pitch was solid—I know it was solid. Vance's response was genuine. The market research, the product differentiation, the sustainable sourcing model—all of it was exactly what investors in this space are looking for.
But none of that matters when a glamorous billionaire ex-wife decides you're a threat.
I read the email again, and this time I can see the lie in every word.
The careful corporate language designed to obscure the truth.
"After careful consideration" means after Victoria got to him.
"Strategic priorities" means keeping your powerful girlfriend happy.
"We wish you the best" means you were collateral damage in someone else's revenge plot.
I sit there, staring at nothing.
Feeling nothing.
Because what is there left to feel?
Two days ago, my father looked me in the eye and told me I was on my own. That I was making the biggest mistake of my life. That he wouldn't be a grandfather to my children.
But at least I still had Essence. Still had the dream I'd built with my own hands, the proof that I could create something meaningful without anyone's help.
Except I can't. Because Victoria Cross decided I don't get to have it.
The laugh that escapes is sharp and bitter. Of course she did. Of course she couldn't just be satisfied with destroying Grant's relationship with his best friend. She had to come for me too. Had to make sure I understood exactly how powerless I am in her world.
I could have the best business plan in the world—and I did. I could work harder than anyone, be more passionate, more dedicated—and I am. None of it matters when someone with more money and power decides to take you down.
The unfairness of it makes me want to scream.
Vance was my best shot. The investor most likely to understand the artisanal fragrance market, most aligned with my values around sustainability and ethical sourcing. I researched him for months before ever requesting that meeting.
There are other investors, technically. Other venture capital firms. But Vance would have been the perfect fit.
My phone buzzes on the desk. Grant, probably checking in.
I can't look at it. Can't talk to him right now. Because if I tell him about this email, he'll know immediately what happened. He'll blame himself for Victoria's actions. He'll want to fix it—call in favors, make introductions, probably just write me a check himself.
And that's exactly what I can't let happen.
The irony is almost funny. I'm sitting here, my dream dying, and the solution is literally one phone call away. Grant could fund Essence himself without even noticing the money left his bank account.
But accepting that would mean proving my father right. Would mean becoming exactly what he accused me of being—a girl who threw her life away for a rich man.
The thought makes my stomach turn.
My phone buzzes again. Then again.
I finally pick it up.
Grant: How's it going?
Grant: Emma?
Grant: I'm worried. Please just let me know you're okay.
The concern in his messages should feel comforting. Instead, it feels suffocating.
Because I'm not okay. Nothing is okay. And I don't know how to tell him that his ex-wife just destroyed the last piece of my life that was still mine.
I type out a response.
Me: I'm good. Just busy. Will call you later.
Another lie. They're getting easier.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and look around my apartment.
I think about all the work I’ve put in: the formulas, the relationships with suppliers, the brand identity I created from scratch.
I’m getting so close.
But my plans aren’t sustainable without funding. Without the capital to scale production, hire help, actually launch the product line I've spent so long perfecting.
I could keep going as I have been. Small batch, selling at farmers markets and local boutiques. Barely breaking even, building slowly, hoping for organic growth.
But that was never the plan. The plan was to launch properly. To make Essence into something significant. To prove that I could compete in this industry on my own merit.
To prove Dad wrong.
But maybe my father was right, and I am just a naive girl who got in over her head.
The tears come suddenly, hot and angry. I press my hands against my eyes, trying to stop them, but I can’t.
I'm so tired of crying.
Tired of feeling broken and powerless and small.
My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it. Can't deal with Grant's concern or Poppy's cheerful check-ins or anyone who might expect me to be okay.
Because I'm not okay.
I’m twenty-four years old. Pregnant with twins. Disowned by my father. My business gutted by my boyfriend's ex-wife.
The studio suddenly feels too small. Too full of ghosts—of the version of myself who worked so hard for what I wanted. Who thought passion and hard work were enough.
Who didn't understand yet that sometimes, you can do everything right and still lose.
My father's voice echoes in my head. You threw your life away the moment you got into bed with him.
The email's final line burns behind my eyes. We wish you the best of luck with Essence and your future endeavors.
Both of them, in their own ways, writing me off. Dismissing what I've created. Proving that I was never going to make it on my own after all.
I pick up my phone. Stare at Grant's worried messages.
He can't fix this. Nothing will fix this.
Victoria made sure of that.