Chapter 21
Emma
There’s a knock at my door.
Grant.
Of course, it's Grant. He texted me again a couple of hours ago and I never responded. He's not very good at giving me space when he thinks I'm drowning.
I open the door, and he steps in and wraps his arms around me.
"I was worried about you."
His voice is gentle. Concerned. The same tone he's used a hundred times over the past two days while I've been falling apart in his arms.
I can't do this right now. Can't be comforted. Can't be told it's going to be okay when we both know it's not.
"I texted you," I say flatly, biting the inside of my lip. "Said I was fine."
"You lied."
I nod slowly. The words aren't an accusation, just a statement of fact. He's right, obviously.
"Emma, what’s going on?"
His hand settles on my shoulder, warm and solid, and I desperately want to lean into his touch. Want to let him hold me while I fall apart again. Want to believe that his presence is enough to fix this.
But it's not.
My laptop is open to Vance’s email. I gesture to the screen and he begins reading the email.
"No." The word is sharp. Disbelieving. "No, he was enthusiastic. You said the meeting went perfectly. He told you—"
"I know what he told me." My voice sounds flat, monotone. "Apparently, he changed his mind."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Analyzing. Calculating. Coming to the same conclusion I did.
"Victoria did this."
It's not a question.
"Yeah." I close the laptop slowly, deliberately. "Most likely."
His jaw clenches. "I'll handle this. I'll call Vance myself, explain that Victoria—"
"And say what? That your ex-wife is sabotaging your girlfriend's business deals? That this is all some elaborate revenge plot? My guess is he won’t care."
Grant's hand moves from my shoulder to cup my face, tilting my head up to meet his eyes. "Then I'll find you another investor. Someone Victoria doesn't have her claws in. This isn't over. We can—"
"We can what?" I pull away from his touch.
"Keep fighting a battle I can't win? Look at what's happened since Florence.
My father disowned me. Your daughter hates me.
And now your ex-wife is systematically destroying my life because she can't stand to see you happy.
Tell me how we fix that. Tell me how I'm supposed to build a life with you when every single person in your world is actively working to tear me down. "
His voice is fierce. "I swear to you, I will not let Victoria—"
"You can't stop her!" The words rip out of me, too loud in the small space. "Don't you get it? She has power. Resources. Connections. She can make one phone call and destroy me. How am I supposed to fight that?”
He's quiet for a moment, his expression shifting from anger to something else. Something that looks almost like pain.
"You're supposed to let me help you," he says quietly.
The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implication.
"Help me how?"
Even as I ask, I know. Know exactly what he's about to say. Can see it in the set of his shoulders, the determination in his eyes. He's about to solve my problem the only way he knows how.
With money.
"I'll fund it."
Three words. Three simple words that make me want to vomit.
"What?"
"Essence." He steps closer, his hands reaching for mine. "I'll fund it myself. Whatever you need—capital for production, marketing budget, operational costs. You won't have to worry about investors or Victoria's interference. You can focus on the work, on building the brand you've envisioned."
I can hear my own heartbeat, rapid and erratic.
"I'll give you whatever you need," he continues, mistaking my silence for consideration. "Complete creative control, Emma. I won't interfere with your vision. This would just be me—providing the resources so you can make it happen."
Something cold and sharp unfurls in my chest.
It's my mother's face. Sad eyes across a dinner table. My father's hand on her arm, steering her away from a conversation. The slow, steady erosion of a person who once had dreams of her own.
Your mother's little art business. Such a waste of time, Emma. She has everything she needs.
"You want to buy my company."
My voice sounds strange and distant.
Grant's expression shifts, confused. "No. I want to invest in it. This isn't about buying anything. It's about giving you the opportunity to—"
"To what?" The cold feeling in my body is spreading, turning my blood to ice. "To succeed? To build my dream? But it wouldn't be my dream anymore, would it? It would be yours. Your money. Your investment. Your—"
"That's not—" He reaches for me, but I step back.
"Don't touch me."
The words come out sharper than I intended, and I see him flinch.
"Emma, please. Just listen—"
"No." The ice is melting now, replaced by something hot and terrible. Anger. "No, you listen. Do you have any idea what you just did? What you just offered?"
"I offered to help you!" His voice rises to match mine. "Your business is in jeopardy because of my ex-wife. The least I can do is—"
"Fix it?" I laugh, and the sound is ugly. "Solve my problems with your money? Make it all better because poor little Emma can't handle her own life?"
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant!" I'm pacing around the apartment because I can't stand still. Can't contain the fury building in my chest. "You saw a problem and immediately reached for your checkbook. Just like—"
I stop. Can't finish that sentence. But Grant does it for me.
"Just like your father."
"Don't you dare try to tell me this is different. Because you know it’s not."
"I'm not buying anything. I'm offering support. You keep saying you want to do this alone, but you don't have to. Let me help you."
"This is mine. Mine.” The words explode out of me. “The one thing I built that has nothing to do with you or your money or your world. And you want to—what? Write a check and make it yours too?"
"It would still be your company."
"But funded by your money. Successful because of your investment.
Grant Cross's girlfriend's little perfume business.
" I spit the words like poison. "That's what it would become.
Every article, every review, every success would come with an asterisk.
She didn't really do it herself. Her billionaire boyfriend bankrolled the whole thing. "
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" I whirl to face him. "Tell me honestly. If you fund Essence, if you make it possible for me to launch without Vance or any other investor, what does that make me?"
His jaw clenches. "It makes you a smart businesswoman who accepted support from someone who loves her."
"It makes me a kept woman."
The words hang in the air between us.
Grant's face goes pale. "That's not—Emma, that's not true."
"No?" I move closer, my voice dropping to something dangerous.
"Ask my mother how fair it is. Ask her what it's like to accept a man's money and his support.
Ask her how long it took before those dreams became his to approve or deny.
Before she couldn't make a single decision without his permission. "
"I'm not your father."
"How are you any different?" The question is vicious. Designed to wound. "You saw me struggling and your first instinct—your immediate response—was to throw money at it. How is that different from what he does?"
"I'm trying to help, not control you,” his voice cracks. “You’re struggling. What kind of partner would I be if I just stood by and watched?"
"The kind who trusts me to save myself!"
"You can't!" He runs a hand through his hair, frustration and fear warring on his face.
"You don't have the capital. Don't have the connections to find another investor before you run out of runway.
I swear I'm not trying to take over. I'm trying to give you options.
To make sure Essence doesn't die because my ex-wife decided to be a bitch. "
"And you don't see the problem with that?" I'm shaking now, my whole body vibrating with rage and terror. "You don't see how your money, your involvement, your generous support would swallow everything I've built? I don’t want to be dependent on you."
"It's not dependency. It's partnership."
Tears are streaming down my face now, hot and furious. I swipe at them angrily, hating that I'm crying again. Hating that even now, even in my rage, part of me wants to collapse into his arms and let him fix everything.
That's the most terrifying part. How easy it would be. How tempting.
"Emma, please." His voice is raw. "I'm not trying to control you. I'm trying to love you. There's a difference."
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold despite the stuffy air in the apartment.
"So are you saying that you'd rather let Essence fail than accept funding from me?"
Standing here, looking at Grant's earnest face and my laptop screen still glowing with rejection, I realize I don't know the answer.
"I don't know," I admit. "I don't know if I can separate your help from my fear of being controlled. Don't know if I can take your money and still feel like Essence is mine. And I don't—" My voice breaks. "I don't know if I can be with you and still be myself."
The words land like a bomb.
Grant goes very still. "What?"
"This is what I was afraid of." My heart is hammering double-time. "From the beginning. In Florence, when I left that note. I knew being with you meant risking this. Risking becoming someone I don't recognize."
"Emma, stop." He follows me, his face pale. "You're spiraling. You're letting fear—"
"Grant, look at the past week. My father disowned me. Your ex-wife destroyed my investment opportunity. My entire life has imploded. And now you're standing here, offering me a solution that would make me completely dependent on you."
"It's Victoria's manipulation," he says desperately. "She's trying to drive us apart. Can't you see that? This is exactly what she wants—for you to push me away…”
“I can’t do this. I can’t lose everything that I am—"
The silence that follows is deafening.
I can see the hurt on his face. The way he flinched as if I’d struck him. And God, I want to take the words back. Want to cross the space between us and tell him I didn't mean it.
But I did mean it. That's the worst part.
"I have given you nothing but love and support," he says finally, his voice rough. "I’ve never tried to control you. Never dismissed your work. Never made you feel small.” He pauses for a moment.
“In a partnership, when one person is struggling, the other steps in.
I'm not trying to buy you or control you or turn you into your mother. I'm trying to be your partner."
"To me, your money and your help and your generous investments all mean the same thing—that I failed. That I couldn't do it alone. That I need a man to rescue me like some pathetic damsel who can't save herself."
"You're not a damsel," Grant says, and there's an edge to his voice now. Frustration bleeding through the concern. "You're a woman who's been dealt a shitty hand by my vindictive ex-wife. Accepting help doesn't make you weak, Emma.”
I look up at him, at the desperation in his eyes, and feel so horrible.
Because he means it. Every word. He genuinely believes this is the way it’s supposed to be. Believes his money can solve the problem without creating new ones.
And maybe with someone else, it could. Maybe someone who didn't grow up watching their mother disappear into a marriage where she had no voice.
But I did grow up watching that. And I am terrified of it.
"I can't," I whisper.
His hands tighten on my shoulders. "Can't what?"
"Can't let you fund Essence. Can't take your money. Can't—" The tears are falling faster now, my vision blurring. "Can't be with someone who makes me question everything I am."
"Emma, no." His voice breaks. "Don't do this. Don't let Victoria win. Don't let your fear destroy what we have."
"What we have is already destroyed. There are too many things stacked against us."
"We haven't lost anything." His hands slide from my shoulders to cup my face, gentle despite the desperation in his eyes. "We still have each other. Still have the twins. Still have—"
I pull away from his touch, and the hurt on his face is devastating. "I can't do this." The words tumble out, desperate and final. "I can't become her. I can't wake up in five years and realize I gave up everything for a man. Even if that man is you."
"Emma—"
"I can't be with you."
The horrible words hang in the air between us.
Grant's face goes white. "You don't mean that."
But I do. I hate it, but it’s true.
"I'm sorry." Tears stream down my face, making everything blur. "I'm so sorry, but I can't. I can't take your money. Can't accept your help."
"So that's it?" His voice is hollow. "You're ending this? Ending us? Because I offered to help save your business?"
"I'm ending this because staying with you means losing myself. And I can't survive that, Grant."
The hurt in his eyes is a knife in my chest, sharp and unrelenting.
But I can't take the words back.
And I would rather lose Grant than lose myself.
Even if it kills me.