Chapter 26
Emma
The elevator doors slide open on the thirty-fourth floor, and my stomach does a nervous flip.
Athena Capital Partners. The brass lettering on the wall gleams under recessed lighting, elegant and understated. The reception area is all clean lines and natural materials—warm wood, soft leather, a stunning arrangement of white orchids on the desk.
I smooth my hands over my dress—navy blue, professional but feminine, my first real maternity clothing purchase. I figured I couldn’t walk in here wearing sweats and one of Grant’s shirts.
The receptionist—a woman in her thirties with kind eyes—looks up with a warm smile. "Ms. Sullivan? They're ready for you. Conference room B, just down the hall on your right."
"Thank you."
My heels click against the hardwood, a steady rhythm that feels like a heartbeat. I feel confident and strong—at least that’s what I’m telling myself.
I worked on this pitch for two weeks straight. Poppy made me practice it with her so many times she can probably recite it in her sleep now. I know my numbers. Know my vision. Know exactly what makes Essence different from every other fragrance line trying to break into the market.
The conference room door is open. Inside, three women sit at a long table, sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows behind them.
I recognize Chelsea Harrington immediately—she's in her mid-fifties, elegant in a cream blazer, her dark hair swept into a low bun.
The other two introduce themselves as her partners, Elizabeth and Kimberly.
"Emma, thank you for coming in." Chelsea stands, extending her hand. Her grip is firm, her smile genuine.
I set my portfolio on the table, my presentation tablet already cued up. "Thank you for meeting with me. I'm excited to share what I've been building."
"We're excited to hear it," Elizabeth says. She's younger than Chelsea, maybe forty, with curious eyes. "Your preliminary materials were impressive."
The nerves flutter again, but I channel them into energy.
"Essence started with a simple question," I begin, pulling up my first slide—a photograph of my bottles of essential oils lined up on my workbench.
"What if luxury fragrance could be completely clean?
Not just natural, but truly sustainable, ethically sourced, and formulated without a single synthetic ingredient? "
I walk them through my training in Florence with Daniela Conti. I talk about how I develop formulas, test blends, and build relationships with small farms that grow jasmine and roses without pesticides.
I show them my sales projections, my marketing strategy, the gap in the current market that Essence is positioned to fill. I talk about the growing consumer demand for transparency, for brands with values, for products that don't force people to choose between luxury and wellness.
I have them smell the signature scent I've been perfecting—neroli and bergamot and sandalwood, bright and grounding at once. I’ve also brought samples of the other fragrances in the line and they ooh and aah over them all.
The questions come fast. Kimberly wants to know about supply chain vulnerabilities. Elizabeth digs into my customer acquisition costs. Chelsea asks about scalability, about what happens when demand outpaces supply.
I answer each one. Honestly, thoroughly, sometimes admitting I don't have perfect solutions yet but explaining my strategies for getting there.
When I finish, there's a moment of silence. The three women exchange glances, some kind of silent communication passing between them.
Then Chelsea leans forward, her fingers steepled. "Emma, I'm going to be direct. What you've built is extraordinary. Your formulations are exceptional, your vision is clear, and your passion is evident. But what really impresses me is your honesty about the challenges."
My heart hammers. "Thank you."
"Too many business owners come in here trying to pretend their businesses are perfect, that they have all the answers." Elizabeth's smile is approving. "You know what you know, and you know what you still need to figure out. That's the mark of a CEO who's going to succeed."
"We'd like to invest," Chelsea says simply.
The words don't register immediately. I blink at her, certain I misheard.
"You—what?"
Kimberly laughs. "We want in, Emma. Athena Capital would like to offer you $500,000 in seed funding, with the potential for a Series A round in eighteen months depending on your growth metrics."
Oh my god. Half a million dollars. And it’s not a loan from my father or charity from Grant, but actual investors who believe in my work.
"I—" My voice catches. "I don't know what to say." I wasn’t expecting them to make a decision so quickly.
"Say yes," Chelsea says warmly. "We'll have our lawyers draw up the term sheet. You'll want to have your own attorney review it, of course."
I’m about to explode from excitement, and I try to maintain some semblance of professionalism. "Yes. Absolutely yes. Thank you."
We all shake hands and I leave.
The elevator ride down feels like I’m floating.
I'm clutching the folder with Athena Capital's preliminary materials, trying to even out my breath.
When the doors open to the lobby, I step out onto the street into bright afternoon sunlight, and I finally let myself feel it.
"I did it," I whisper to myself.
Grant is waiting for me in his car right outside the front door. His driver gets out and opens the door for me and I scoop in next to Grant.
"I did it. Grant, I actually did it," I say louder than I meant to.
His smile is brilliant. "I knew you would, baby." He takes me in his arms and holds me tight.
"They said yes. They want to invest. Half a million dollars. That's—" I laugh, the sound slightly hysterical. "That's real money. I can scale production, hire help, actually pay myself a salary."
"You earned it." Grant's hands frame my face, gentle and reverent. "Every word of that pitch, every formula you developed, every relationship you built—that was all you. I'm so proud of you."
The tears come then, hot and fast. Relief and joy and the overwhelming validation of having someone believe in my dream enough to invest in it.
"Thank you," I say. "For understanding what I needed. For giving me the chance to prove it to myself."
"Always." He kisses the top of my head. "You're going to change the industry, Emma. I know it."
I pull back, wiping at my eyes and probably destroying my mascara. "I need to call Poppy. And I need to—God, I need to let this sink in. Grant, I have real investors. I'm going to launch Essence."
His laugh is warm. "You are. And I get to watch you do it."
By Saturday, the news has finally started to feel right—like I can hold onto it without feeling like it might evaporate.
Athena Capital sent over the term sheet.
My lawyer—Grant connected me to an attorney who specializes in startup funding, another door opened rather than a problem solved—says it's an excellent deal.
Fair valuation, reasonable equity stake, and a commitment to a second round if I hit my growth targets.
It's happening. Essence is actually happening.
Which makes tonight's charity gala feel less daunting than it might have otherwise.
I stand in front of the mirror in Grant's bedroom, smoothing my hands over the dress I bought specifically for this event.
It's emerald-green silk, sleeveless, with a high neckline and a dramatic back.
The fabric drapes beautifully over my baby bump—twenty-one weeks now, officially more than halfway through.
Grant appears behind me in the mirror, devastatingly handsome in his tuxedo. "You look stunning, baby."
"I look pregnant," I say, but I'm smiling.
"You look stunning and pregnant." He rests his hand on my stomach, his touch warm through the silk. "How are they?"
"Active." One of the twins—or maybe both, I can't tell yet—has been doing somersaults all afternoon. "I think they're excited about tonight."
Grant's smile is soft. "Are you ready for this? It's going to be a lot of people. A lot of questions."
The gala is one of New York's major charity events—black tie, three hundred plus guests, the kind of party where million-dollar donations are announced from the stage. Grant serves on the board of the organization and he's been expected to attend for months.
He asked if I wanted to skip it. Suggested we could make an excuse and avoid the scrutiny.
I said no.
Because hiding feels like shame, and I'm done with that.
"I'm ready," I tell him. "Let them whisper. I don't care anymore."
His eyes in the mirror are fierce with pride and love. "That's my girl."
He helps me with my necklace—a gorgeous delicate chain with a whopping diamond pendant that he surprised me with last week—and we head downstairs to the waiting car.
The venue is the Metropolitan Museum. We pull up to red-carpeted steps, camera flashes already going off for the early arrivals. This isn't the kind of event that makes tabloids, but there's a society photographer, and the charity's social media team is documenting everything.
Grant helps me out of the car, his hand firm on mine.
We walk up the steps together, and I feel the attention shift our way. I can hear the hushed whispers that immediately start—Grant Cross and his young girlfriend, the one who's pregnant.
I hold my head high.
Inside, the Great Hall has been transformed. Soaring ceilings, dramatic lighting, round tables dressed in white linen and gold accents. A string quartet plays near the entrance. Waiters circulate with champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
It's beautiful and intimidating at the same time. Exactly the kind of event I never thought I’d want to go to because I wouldn't feel like I belonged.
Tonight, I belong exactly as much as anyone else here.
Grant introduces me to lots of people—board members, donors, colleagues from his various business ventures. I smile, shake hands, and make small talk. Several people congratulate me on the pregnancy.