"Anyway," Chelsea continues, "send me her info. Website, business plan if she has one that’s public-facing. I'll take a look."
"I don't have it." The admission comes out more abruptly than I intend. "I mean, I could get it, but I think if you're interested, you should reach out to her directly. This should be about her business, not about me making introductions."
Another pause.
"Grant, can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
"What's your relationship to this woman?"
The question hangs in the air. If this is going to work, if Emma's going to have a real shot, it can't be built on deception. I need to be straight and upfront with Chelsea.
"We're... involved," I say. "Or we were. It's complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"The kind of complicated where me trying to help has been part of the problem. Which is why I'm calling you, Chelsea. Not to ask you to do me a favor. Not to leverage our friendship. I'm calling because I genuinely think she's talented enough to be on your radar. And because I need this to be about her merit, not about me."
Chelsea laughs. "Well, that's refreshingly honest. And slightly heartbreaking, if I'm reading between the lines correctly."
"It really is," I admit.
"Okay. I'll look into Essence. If it’s as good as you say, I'll reach out to her directly. No mention of you unless she brings it up first." She pauses. "But Grant, if this blows up in your face, if she finds out you made this call and it goes badly, I'm not covering for you."
"I know. And I'm not asking you to."
"Good." I can hear the smile in her voice. "For what it's worth, the fact that you're thinking about this at all—about how to help without overstepping—says something. Your ex-wife really didn’t deserve you."
The mention of Victoria makes my jaw clench. "Victoria is the reason Vance walked away. She's been systematically trying to destroy anything that makes me happy."
"Of course she has." Chelsea's tone goes disgusted. "No offense, but that woman is a piece of work. All the more reason to make sure Emma has options that Victoria can't touch."
We talk for a few more minutes—bits of small talk that signals a conversation winding down. When I finally hang up, I’m not sure how to feel.
I did it.
Not a favor. Not a fix. Just opening a door.
Now it's up to Emma to walk through it.
If she even wants to.
I set the phone down and look out at the city again. The sun has broken through the clouds, painting everything in sharp, bright light. Something about the beauty of it makes me ache for Emma—but she isn't here, isn't mine, might never be again.
For the first time in a week, I feel like I did something right.
I didn't try to buy her dream. Didn't try to make myself the hero of her story.
I just gave her a chance. One that she earned with her talent, vision, and hard work.
Whether it's enough to win her back, I don't know.
But it's a start.
I pick up my phone again, my thumb hovering over Emma's name in my contacts. I want to text her. I want to tell her that I understand now. That I'm sorry. That I'll spend the rest of my life proving that I can be a partner instead of a problem-solver.
But that's not what she needs right now.
