Chapter 22
Grant
I've been staring out my office window for the better part of an hour, watching the gray morning light crawl across Manhattan's skyline, and I can't shake the feeling that things will never feel right in my life again.
My reflection stares back at me from the glass, superimposed over the cityscape. I look like hell. I have dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep and I can’t remember the last time I shaved.
It was before Emma told me she can't be with me.
The memory hits like a physical blow, sharp enough that I have to press my palm against the window to steady myself. Her face. The devastation in her eyes. The way her voice cracked when she said it.
I can still see the tears streaming down her face. Hear the exact inflection in her voice when she said the thing that's been playing on repeat in my head for the last week.
I can't be with you.
I move away from the window, unable to stand still. My office—forty-second floor, corner office, floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides—suddenly feels like a cage. All this space, all this expensive furniture and carefully curated art, and I can't breathe.
I sink into my chair—Italian leather, custom-made, costs more than most people's cars—and the absurdity of it hits me. All this wealth, power, success—it means nothing.
Less than nothing, actually. It's actively destroying the only thing I've wanted in years.
The irony would be funny if it wasn't so fucking devastating.
I pull up my email, more out of habit than any real desire to work. A hundred and forty-seven unread messages. Deals waiting to close. Contracts needing review. Board meetings scheduled.
I close the email without reading a single message.
What's the point? I could close every deal on that list, could add another billion to my net worth, and it wouldn't change the fundamental problem.
Emma thinks accepting my help means losing herself.
The memory of our argument makes me want to put my fist through something. The way I immediately offered to fund Essence. The solution-oriented, problem-solving instinct that's served me so well in business but destroyed everything in the one moment that actually mattered.
I didn't ask what she needed. Didn't give her space to figure it out herself. Just saw a problem and threw money at it like that's the only tool in my arsenal.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The recessed lighting up there cost $10,000. Custom fixtures, imported from Denmark, installed by specialists.
My whole life feels completely meaningless right now.
The phone on my desk buzzes. Thomas, my assistant, with my morning schedule.
I ignore it.
Another buzz. My lawyer, about the Henderson contract.
Ignore.
A third buzz. Victoria.
That one I look at, my jaw clenching so hard my teeth ache.
Victoria: I heard through the grapevine that you and Emma have parted ways. I'm sorry, Grant. I know you cared about her. If you need someone to talk to, I'm here.
The false sympathy makes my blood boil. She did this. Orchestrated the entire disaster with the precision of a military operation. The photograph sent to David. The whisper in Vance's ear that killed Emma's investment.
I delete the message without responding. Engaging with Victoria right now would be a mistake. Would give her exactly what she wants—proof that she got under my skin. Proof that she still has power over my life.
But God, the rage I feel toward Victoria is so much easier than the painful knot of emotions I have about Emma.
Victoria is the villain. The outside force. The enemy I can blame.
Except that's not true, and I know it.
Victoria created the circumstances. But I'm the one who showed Emma exactly what she was afraid of. I'm the one who confirmed every terrible fear she has about powerful men.
I pick up a pen from my desk—Mont Blanc, limited edition, another stupid expensive thing—and turn it over in my fingers.
I've spent my entire adult life accumulating tools like this. Things that signal success. Wealth. Power. The ability to shape the world according to my vision.
And now I'm supposed to what? Put them all down? Pretend I don't have resources that could help Emma? That seems just as wrong. Just as much of a lie.
A thought crystallizes slowly, like ice forming on a window.
Partnership isn't about me solving her problems. It's about us facing problems together. And right now, the problem is that my default setting—fix it, fund it, control the outcome—is toxic to the woman I love.
So what the hell do I do?
I stand, pacing the length of my office.
Emma doesn't want my money. Doesn't want me to rescue her. And definitely doesn't want to be saved.
She wants to save herself.
So what if—and the idea forms slowly, carefully—what if I'm not the solution? What if I'm just... the door?
I stop pacing, the thought taking shape.
Emma's business is viable. Her scents are incredible. Her vision for clean organic fragrance is exactly the kind of thing that investors in this market are looking for. Vance knew it. That's why he was enthusiastic before Victoria got to him.
The problem isn't Emma's business plan. It's not her talent or her work ethic or her vision.
The problem is that Victoria poisoned the well. Made sure the one investor who was perfect for Essence walked away.
But Victoria's reach isn't infinite. There are plenty of people in this world she doesn't control. Connections she doesn't have.
Connections I do have.
I move back to my desk, my heart starting to pound. Not with the adrenaline of a deal about to close, but with something more fragile. More uncertain.
Hope, maybe.
I pull up my contacts, scrolling through names. Not investors. Not venture capital firms. Not anyone who would see this as a favor to me.
Someone who would see Emma for what she is. Who would recognize talent and vision and determination.
My thumb hovers over a name.
Chelsea Harrington.
I haven't talked to Chelsea in almost two years, not since she sold her cosmetics company to Estée Lauder for nearly a billion dollars.
We served on a nonprofit board together back when she was still building her business from a small storefront in Brooklyn.
Before she became the face of clean beauty. Before she was on the cover of Forbes.
She did everything herself at first. No investors for the first five years. No family money. Just her vision and her willingness to work a hundred hours a week.
Exactly the kind of person Emma would respect.
Exactly the kind of person who might give Emma a chance to tell her story.
I stare at the name, my mind racing through possibilities. I could call Chelsea. Tell her about Emma. Set up a meeting.
But that's still me solving the problem. Still me being the fixer.
Unless...
Unless I'm not solving anything. Unless I'm just creating an opportunity. Opening a door that Emma can choose to walk through or not.
The distinction feels razor-thin and monumentally important at the same time.
I lean back in my chair, thinking it through. What Emma had expressed wasn't just about money. It was about autonomy. About being able to make her own choices, succeed or fail on her own merit.
If I make a call, if I use my connection to get her a meeting, is that robbing her of that?
Or is it just... using my resources in a way that empowers her?
The question doesn't have an easy answer.
I stand again, moving back to the window. The city has brightened slightly, the gray morning giving way to something that almost resembles sunlight.
My phone buzzes again. I glance at it, hoping it’s Emma. Of course, it's not. Just Thomas again, this time asking if I'm ready for my ten o'clock.
I text back.
Me: Cancel everything today.
Thomas: Everything?
Me: Everything.
I set the phone down and look at Chelsea's name again in my contacts.
The thing is, I know Chelsea would take the call. Would probably be intrigued by what I have to tell her. She's always been interested in discovering new talent, in supporting women building businesses in the beauty space.
But if I call her and say "Do me a favor," if I frame this as cashing in a chip, then the whole thing is tainted. Then Emma's success will always have an asterisk next to it.
*She only got the meeting because her billionaire boyfriend called in a favor.
That's what people would say. What Emma would think, deep down.
I sink back into my chair, thinking more about what to do.
I can't make this about me.
Can't make it a favor I'm owed, or a connection I'm leveraging for my girlfriend.
It has to be about Emma. About her work. About Chelsea seeing the potential on its own merit.
Which means...
The idea comes fully formed, and I know immediately it's right.
I don't call Chelsea to ask for a meeting. I call her to tell her about something interesting I've come across. Someone whose work she might want to know about. Not as a favor to me, but as information she might find valuable.
And then I step back. Just let Emma and her work speak for themselves.
I chew on the inside of my mouth as I pick up my phone. This could backfire spectacularly. Chelsea could say no. Could be uninterested.
Or Emma could find out I made the call and see it as exactly the kind of interference she just left me over.
But I can't do nothing. Can't just accept that we're over, that she's going to let her dream die because Victoria decided to wage war.
I pull up Chelsea's number. Stare at it.
Then I hit dial before I can talk myself out of it.
The phone rings several times.
I'm about to hang up—maybe this is a sign, maybe I should just—
"Grant Cross." Chelsea's voice is warm, surprised. "I was thinking about you recently. Saw that piece in the Journal about the Riverside development. Impressive work."
"Chelsea. Thanks. How are you?"
"Bored, honestly. Retirement isn't all it's cracked up to be." She laughs, and the sound makes me smile. Chelsea's never been good at sitting still. "What can I do for you?"