Epilogue - Emma
"—and we're projecting a forty percent sell-through in the first quarter, which exceeds our initial forecast by—Clara, no, sweetie, that's not for throwing—sorry, Andrea, what was that?"
My marketing director's laugh crackles through the phone. "I said, sounds like you have your hands full."
"You have no idea." I watch as my daughter—twenty-two months of pure cuteness wrapped in a pink onesie—picks up another block and launches it with surprising accuracy at her brother's head.
James dodges at the last second, giggling like it's the best game ever invented.
"But yes, the Bergdorf's launch. I'm thrilled.
Tell them we can commit to the spring line being ready by March fifteenth. "
"Will do. And Emma? Congratulations. This is huge."
The words settle in my chest, filling me with pride. Huge doesn't begin to cover it. Bergdorf Goodman—one of the most prestigious department stores in the country—carrying Essence. My formulas. My vision. My company.
"Thank you," I manage, my voice thick. "I couldn't have done it without the team."
We say our goodbyes, and I set my phone on the coffee table next to a half-constructed tower of blocks and what I'm pretty sure is a petrified piece of toast from breakfast three days ago.
The living room is a disaster.
Toys scattered across the plush rug Grant insisted we get after Clara learned to walk and immediately face-planted on the hardwoods.
Picture books with bent pages stacked haphazardly beside the sofa.
A laundry basket full of clean clothes I meant to fold yesterday—or was it the day before?
—sitting in the corner like a silent accusation.
Two years ago, this space was pristine. All clean lines and expensive minimalism, the kind of bachelor's penthouse you'd see in a magazine spread. Sterile and beautiful and… completely devoid of life.
Now it's chaos. Beautiful, exhausting, perfect chaos.
Grant emerges from the kitchen, and I can't help the way my heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing since I was a teenager. He's in jeans and a t-shirt that's seen better days, his hair disheveled, a smear of what looks like mashed banana on his shoulder.
He's never looked better.
"Was that Andrea?" he asks, expertly dodging another block as Clara winds up for another throw.
"Yeah. Bergdorf's confirmed. We're launching the spring line in March."
The smile that spreads across his face is brilliant. "Emma, that's incredible. We should celebrate. Champagne? Dinner at—Clara Marie Cross, we do not throw food at people."
Our daughter freezes mid-wind-up, a piece of actual banana in her fist this time, her eyes going wide with exaggerated innocence. "No?"
"No." Grant's voice is firm but gentle. He crosses to her, kneeling down to her level. "If you're done eating, you can hand it to Daddy. Can you do that?"
She considers this for a moment, then very deliberately drops the banana on his head.
James dissolves into peals of laughter, falling over sideways in his mirth. I have to press my hand over my mouth to keep from joining him.
Grant looks up at me, banana sliding down his forehead. "You think this is funny?"
"Hilarious," I confirm.
He plucks the banana off his head with exaggerated dignity, then swoops Clara into the air. She shrieks with delight, her earlier defiance forgotten as he spins her in a circle.
"You," he tells her seriously, nose to nose, "are lucky you're so cute."
"Dada funny," she announces, patting his cheeks with sticky hands.
"Dada's something," he agrees, setting her down gently.
James toddles over to me, his arms outstretched. "Mama up."
I scoop him up, pressing a kiss to his dark hair. He smells like baby shampoo and the teething biscuit he demolished an hour ago. "Hi, buddy. You protecting your sister from the tower invasion?"
"Cawa bad," he informs me solemnly, even though he was laughing at her thirty seconds ago.
"Clara's learning," I correct gently. "Just like you."
Grant appears beside me, Clara perched on his hip. "David's coming by in an hour. I should probably shower before he gets here." He gestures to his banana-adorned state. "Unless you think this is a good look for me?"
"Very distinguished." I reach up to wipe a smear off his temple. "Very CEO."
His hand catches mine, holding it against his face for just a moment. The gesture is casual, unconscious almost, but it makes my chest tight anyway.
Two years, and he still looks at me like I'm something precious.
"Go shower," I tell him. "I'll wrangle the twins."
"You sure? I can—"
"Grant." I lean up to kiss him, quick and certain. "I've got this. Go."
He goes, but not before stealing another kiss, this one deeper. Clara makes a sound of disgust between us.
"Yucky," she declares.
"Very yucky," Grant agrees solemnly. But his eyes are dancing when they meet mine. "Twenty minutes. Then I'm all yours for twin duty."
I watch him disappear down the hallway, and feel that familiar surge of gratitude and love and still, after everything, a little bit of wonder.
This is my life. Our life.
The one I was so terrified to build because I thought it meant sacrificing everything I'd worked for.
James squirms in my arms, wanting down. I set him on the floor, and he immediately toddles over to the blocks, beginning the serious work of reconstruction.
I sink onto the sofa, my body grateful for the reprieve.
The morning has been a whirlwind—a video conference with our production team in France, a call with our new hire for customer service, three emails from investors wanting updates on our expansion plans, and somewhere in there, I managed to change two diapers, prevent one toddler meltdown, and eat half an apple.
My phone buzzes. A text from Poppy.
Poppy: SAW THE PRESS RELEASE. BERGDORF'S?!?! EM. HOLY SHIT.
I smile, typing back one-handed while keeping an eye on James.
Me: I know! Still processing.
Poppy: Celebratory drinks? Please say yes. I need to hear everything.
Me: Tomorrow? My dad is visiting today.
Poppy: Tell him I said hi. And Em? I'm so proud of you.
The words make my eyes sting. Poppy's been with me through everything—the pregnancy test that changed my life, the breakup that almost destroyed me, the reconciliation that saved me.
She's watched me build Essence from a dream scribbled in notebooks to a company with real offices, real employees, and now, distribution in one of the world's most prestigious retailers.
Me: Love you. Couldn't have done this without you.
Poppy: Damn right you couldn't. I'm an excellent social media manager. See you tomorrow. xx
I set the phone aside and let myself just sit for a moment. The apartment is quiet except for the twins’ concentrated babbling as they stack blocks and the distant sound of the shower running.
The scent of home surrounds me—baby powder and something delicious Grant must have started in the slow cooker this morning, and underneath it all, the faint citrusy notes of the new perfume I've been developing. Neroli and blood orange and just a whisper of cardamom for warmth.
Innovation, I'm calling it. A scent that's both familiar and surprising. Traditional and bold.
Kind of like my life turned out to be.
I look around the living room, taking in the beautiful disaster. This space has transformed so completely from what it was. We kept some of Grant's furniture—the sofa, the coffee table, the gorgeous bookshelves—but everything else is new. Softer. More lived-in.
There are photos everywhere. Grant and I on our wedding day, a small ceremony with just close friends and family.
Samantha holding the twins when they were newborns, her face soft with wonder.
Poppy and me at the Essence ribbon-cutting for our new studio space.
The twins' first birthday, both of them covered in cake.
And one I love especially—Grant's grandfather, James Senior, holding baby James for the first time. The expression on his face, the way his weathered hands cradled his great-grandson with such tenderness.
He passed away six months ago. Peacefully, in his sleep, which is what everyone says when they're trying to find comfort in loss.
Grant still misses him so much. I see it in quiet moments, when he's holding James and his expression goes distant. When he catches himself wanting to call his grandfather with some piece of news.
But there's joy in the grief too. Joy that his grandfather got to meet the twins. Got to see Grant happy. Got to know me.
"You'll take care of my boy," he'd told me once, his eyes sharp despite his age. "Won't let him work himself to death like he's prone to doing."
"I'll try," I'd promised.
"You'll do more than try." His smile had been knowing. "You're good for him. Best thing that ever happened to him, if you ask me."
I hadn't known what to say to that. Still don't, really.
But I think about it a lot.
James—my James, not Grant's grandfather—makes a sound of triumph as his tower reaches impressive heights. "Mama, look!"
"I see, buddy! That's so tall!"
He beams at me, then immediately knocks it over with a sweep of his arm. The cycle begins again.
I hear Grant's footsteps in the hallway before he appears, freshly showered and in clean clothes. His hair is still damp, and he smells like the sandalwood soap I bought him for his birthday.
"Better?" he asks.
"Much. Though I was getting used to the banana aesthetic."
He drops onto the sofa beside me, pulling me into his side with one arm. I curl into him automatically, my head on his shoulder.
"How are you feeling about David coming?" he asks quietly.
It's a loaded question. It's always a loaded question.
My father and I have been rebuilding our relationship for two years now. Slowly. Carefully. With a lot of boundaries and even more therapy—for me, not him, though I've suggested it approximately a thousand times.